


Quintessential

by thisprettywren



Series: Spectrum [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, First Time, M/M, SenseVerse, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:40:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Ishmael has made an amazing cover for this (which I'm going to attempt to add to the download versions). You can find it [here](http://nothingcomplete.tumblr.com/post/38043008357/quintessential-by-thisprettywren-i-dont-want-to).
> 
> By request, I've started doing some commentary/director's cut-type posts. Until/unless I can find a way to put them on AO3 that isn't obnoxious, you can find them at the [SenseVerse Commentary tag on my tumblr](http://thisprettywren.tumblr.com/tagged/senseverse-commentary). (warning: spoilery for Quintessential, though not for the subsequent stories. )
> 
>  **New download info** :
> 
> If you've tried to download this fic, you most likely ended up with some sort of wonky illegible thing. I finally had a chance to make my own ebook version that incorporates the graphics (including the ones currently hosted on LJ). So, if you want to grab that, you can do it as either an [epub](http://cl.ly/0W3y0Z0e0X3f) or a [PDF](http://cl.ly/2W3h371L3W45) by clicking one of those two links.
> 
> Absolutely infinite thanks to hiddenlacuna, Mazarin221b, and honeybee221b for their work as betae for this monster, airynothing for her eagle eyes, and to BelovedMuerto and Roane72 for acting as readers. 
> 
> They have gone above and beyond; any remaining mistakes are 100% my own, and usually committed in the face of loud protests.
> 
> Additional thanks to greywash for helping with the CSS and the whole group of folks over at #innercircle for gracefully putting up with my shenanigans (i.e. listening to me whine, helping me sort out the details, and generally holding my hand).
> 
> Speaking of CSS, this thing uses quite a bit of formatting. If it looks really wonky it's possible you've switched off the setting that preserves authors' workskins, so you might want to toggle it back on again.

"— Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Sherlock's eyes dart up from the screen, searching John's face for a reaction. If he's expecting hesitation or objection, John won't give it to him. With his TID in Sherlock's hands he's robbed of the ability to answer but he tips his chin up, matching the intensity of Sherlock's gaze with his own.

 _Well, cheers_ , he thinks. _That makes two of us_ , and he can't help but smile.

* * *

## Memorandum

To: All employees

From: Mycroft Holmes, MP, Undersecretary of State for Public Health

**Subject: Annual Amendments to the Comprehensive Senso-Variant Registry Handbook**

Date: 29 May 2010

The Department of Health wishes to thank you all for your diligent work to prepare the updated Registry Handbook. The Undersecretary's office has reviewed the draft submitted on 29 April.

Please address the following, then resubmit your revisions to this office for approval:

  * Section 1, Line 14: Required testing for school enrolment may now be conducted by the NHS as well as school providers. Include information about the NHS page where citizens can find their local testing centres. 
  * Section 2, Line 2: Legislation effective in 2012 will require the wrist to be clear of obstruction within three centimetres of variant markers. Please include this for those citizens wishing to begin necessary wardrobe modifications early. 
  * Section 2, Line 27: re: "Citizens over the age of sixty-five (60)…" Resolve the conflicting age requirement. 
  * Section 4, Line 3: Review qualification requirements for Gastronasal Chef certification (cf. memo issued by C. Meyers on 2 May 2010). 
  * Section 6, Line 4: The late-2010 firmware push for Anoptic Echolocation Sensors will occur on **28 November** , not **30 November** as written. 
  * Section 6, Line 31: "You will see changes to the standard Textual Input Display (TID) interface…." Replace visuo-normative construction with "You may expect" or similar. 
  * Bear in mind that the results of the June referendum may render Section 8 obsolete. Prepare a supplementary paragraph so that, in the unlikely event that compulsory BSL instruction is reinstated, it may be included immediately. 



You will find additional detailed comments in the attached enclosure.

**Note to all staff:** We will be pushing an update to all Oral Recitation Systems at 0400 tomorrow, in advance of the general population release on 1 June. This update will reflect recent additions to the Oxford English Dictionary as well as new commonly-used phrases. Anoptic staff members will experience a brief disruption in their ORS services. Please take this into account when sending intra-office communications.

As always, there is a small possibility that coding bugs will result in a longer-than-anticipated service disruption. In the event of such an unlikely occurrence, sighted staff members are asked to assist anoptic staff members wherever necessary.

**Attachments: One (1)**


	2. Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The graphics at the top of each chapter contain click-through links to some supplementary materials that help flesh out/make sense of the world but _might_ be a bit spoilery (though not for plot). So check those out or not, whatever shakes your boat.

[ ](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/59089.html)

## The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

13 July

### The Speckled Blonde

Early thirties, dyed blonde hair, aceptive. Strange red speckles all over her body. The woman, Julia Stoner, had been found in her bed. There seemed to be no obvious cause of death.

Her sister, Helen, said that Julia had been feeling a bit run-down for the last few months, but she assumed Julia was just anxious about her upcoming wedding. Her family are mostly ageusic, and there are hardly any at all in the groom's family, so the reception

"As though her murder had anything at all to do with her mental state."

John presses his lips together but doesn't even bother turning away from the computer screen. Sherlock's a clever man, and it's not as though he hasn't seen John's glare often enough to know what it looks like.

He taps the carriage return twice, pointedly, before beginning his reply, hitting the keys slowly for maximum impact.

It's significant. People care about these things.

"Then what people care about is _wrong_. And irrelevant. Her mental state had no bearing at all on the outcome of the case."

Stop reading over my shoulder, you git.

John punctuates his point by angling the laptop screen slightly downward. Behind him, Sherlock voices his irritation with a harsh exhale.

"You're about to post it for the whole world to see. Any objection you might have to me reading it is idiotic."

John doesn't bother to reply, just squares his shoulders and keeps his eyes resolutely forward until he hears Sherlock's footsteps moving away toward the kitchen.

~~Her family are mostly ageusic, and there are hardly any at all in the groom's family, so the reception~~

~~It's relevant. People care about these things.~~

~~Stop reading over my shoulder, you git.~~

Her sister, Helen, said that Julia had been feeling a bit run-down for the last few months, but she assumed Julia was just anxious about her upcoming wedding. It was only after performing the autopsy that I discovered two small puncture marks above her ankle and traces of an unidentified poison in her bloodstream.

"Not 'unidentified', John."

This time John turns his head enough to glower in Sherlock's direction. Even irritated as he is, John can't help noticing that Sherlock is, yet again, being reckless with himself; if not reckless by his own standards, then certainly by John's. He's taken the precaution of long sleeves and gloves, at least, but he isn't wearing his goggles, and hasn't bothered to set down the phial still clutched in his left hand. He gestures wildly with his right hand and the phial tips, just a bit. Not enough to spill but it’s a near enough thing that John’s jaw tightens in reflex. Sherlock isn't wearing goggles; the gloves might not be enough.

Idiot.

Sherlock goes on. From the way his gaze slants sideways, John can tell he's conscious of John's frustration and is ignoring it deliberately, the prat. "A man of your background should be aware that of the small number of poisons that would fail to cause irritation in the skin of an aceptive, not a single one of them is to be found in the venom of a snake."

John has a sudden image of Sherlock the day after they met, presenting the pink suitcase like a prize. He’d run around the city rooting through skips containing who-knows-what, in such a great hurry to find what he was looking for that he’d left John at the scene without a word, then held off on telling Lestrade about it until it suited him. No, not even then; he waited until Lestrade brought a team in to rummage through their flat. They’d stood in the sitting room, Sherlock pacing and protesting and refusing to meet John’s eye until John grabbed his arm and forced him to, even though he knew, he _knew_ —

The heat rising up the back of John's neck is a familiar sensation. He turns back to the screen, tapping the keys with audible force.

Not everyone has my background

_delete, delete, delete_

our background and they generally don't like being made to feel stupid all the time so

_So you can't withhold information just because it suits you,_ he doesn't have a chance to type before Sherlock rushes ahead, irritation lowering the tenor of his voice, clipping the ends of his words.

"So you'll make yourself look stupid instead, put it on your little blog. If that's your solution, John, I suggest you direct your attentions toward devising another one. Or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."

Right. _Right._

John shoves himself to standing and slams the lid of his laptop shut. He grabs Sherlock's lab goggles from the jumble of papers and equipment on the desk and moves deliberately across the room to all but shove them into Sherlock's right hand. Sherlock’s fingers tighten around John’s hand instinctively, trapping it against the hard curve of the plastic.

Sherlock's chin jerks up in surprise; his eyes flare wide, then narrow, his pale gaze slanting down to lock on John's own.

John holds his ground. He can feel his chest rising and falling with his breath, the hum of his blood beneath his skin. He doesn't look away.

The back of John's hand is pressed against Sherlock's palm. John is acutely aware of the points of contact, the warmth of Sherlock's skin through the thin material of the glove. He understands all too well that, of the two of them, he's the only one capable of perceiving it, just as he's the only one capable of truly understanding just how much Sherlock is risking with his recklessness.

Sherlock sees through everyone and everything, he thinks, but this. John knows—from a career's worth of injuries in A&E, from a childhood of cold showers because turning the boiler on meant Harry would emerge with her back burned raw, every time—just how alone he is in this. He's no closer now than he was that first night they met, Sherlock about to do something impossibly stupid with two panes of glass between them, John furious and silent and with no choice but to fire.

It's John who breaks the moment, finally, pulling his hand away with more force than he intends. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on his back as he turns to stalk back across the room. It takes an effort not to respond but John manages it, tucking his laptop under his arm and moving toward the door. Don't look back, don't look back, John thinks as he closes the door to the sitting room behind him and begins to climb the stairs. He doesn't want to have a bloody conversation about it, he just wants to finish his blog entry without Sherlock correcting him—talking over him— every third word. Surely that isn't too much to ask.

Stop inflicting his opinions on the world, indeed.

If Sherlock only knew.

  


* * *

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7766508504/)

* * *

  


_Don’t forget:_

\- sugar

\- eggs

\- ~~Hematuria reagent strips~~

\- biros (and you’re not to touch them, Sherlock)

  


\- ~~Hematuria reagent strips~~

(cross it off again if you like, Sherlock, it’s not like I’m about to forget now I’ve had to write it twice.)

Childish prat.

Your persistence is mind-numbing. -SH  
P.S. - If you don’t want me using your pens, you shouldn’t write such absurd notes.

Funny how medical school will do that to you. It’s this or taking you in for an IVP.  
P.S. - I need to be able to find one. ONE, you arse.

  


* * *

  


Sherlock, in his element, is amazing. There's simply no other word for it.

(No, that's not true. There are several: _extraordinary, fantastic, incredible_. John's thought them all, at one time or another; every possible permutation of the concept in the English language, and still he finds himself blindsided by it.)

“—six possibilities, then, if you include all those who would have had both means and access, but what possible benefit could any of them derive from the death of one of the cast?”

Sherlock hasn’t said anything the rest of them don’t already know, of course—not yet—but he’s still ramping himself up. Lestrade has his head tipped down, listening intently, anticipating the reveal, but John can see that Anderson is already beginning to tune him out, letting his eyes wander over the scene. If he’s lost Anderson, Donovan isn’t far behind.

 _Pay attention._ John narrows his eyes in their direction. _You won’t want to miss this._ But they aren’t paying him any mind. It's hardly a surprise; bad enough that he's an aphone, and being here with Sherlock… well.

John wonders, sometimes, if he would feel differently about Sherlock if he were missing any single part of this: the light in his eyes, the excitement in his voice. Sherlock might dismiss his body as mere transport but John only really appreciates it in moments like this, his entire body growing animated as though he’s lost all sense of his own physicality while simultaneously becoming entirely present, growing to fill the space inside his own skin. It's mesmerising.

John’s mind flashes back to the first taxi ride they’d taken together, Sherlock turning Harry’s old mobile over and over as he read John’s history from the tiny scratches in its surface. How different it had looked in Sherlock’s hands than in hers, the inborn aceptive disconnect between self and object completely absent, obliterated by the force of Sherlock’s mental engagement with the puzzle. With _John_.

It was amazing. Of course it was; it's still amazing, even all these months later. And if John is the only one able to perceive the full extent of Sherlock's brilliance, then he’ll count himself lucky.

Sherlock’s gloved fingers find their way to his head to tug at his hair as he paces. It’s harmless enough, John’s always thought—he knows what it looks like, but it’s not as though Sherlock ever seems to be getting any enjoyment out of it; and what would it matter if he did?—but he catches the glance that passes between Donovan and Anderson. Sherlock does, too; John sees the tightening of the line of his shoulders beneath the fabric of his shirt as he deliberately turns so they can no longer see his face.

“No,” Sherlock continues, voice dropping in pitch, the syllables coming out clipped and quick, “the only logical conclusion to draw is that the only one of them—“

“Sir!” Donovan’s appeal is directed to Lestrade, but she steps forward to place herself bodily into Sherlock’s path. Sherlock seems taken aback by her abrupt proximity; he jerks himself backward, his jaw snapping shut around a bitten-off sound.

“I know,” Lestrade says, sounding tired. John can hardly blame him; it isn’t as though they haven’t had this exact argument countless times before. There are lines of strain around his mouth; the case is a public one, true, and John wonders if he’s facing pressure from inside the Met. “Sherlock, if you’re going to be involved, you can’t exclude the rest of the team.”

Sherlock scoffs. “On the contrary, I am in fact more than capable of excluding—“

Lestrade raises a hand, cutting Sherlock off mid-sentence. The sleeve of his jacket slides down, revealing how nearly the cuff of his shirt covers the mark on his wrist, skirting dangerously close to the legal limit for disclosure. It's a futile gesture, of course—his variant would be obvious enough even had he flouted the law by covering the yellow ink entirely, though an anoptic like Lestrade would be less likely to understand that than most —but John has witnessed it enough times in his life to recognise it for the psychological defence mechanism it is.

John thinks he must be right, then, about the internal pressure. There have always been rumours of internal doubt that an anoptic might really be capable of performing the duties demanded of a DI. John feels a surge of indignation; as though Lestrade’s record didn’t speak for itself. As though he hadn’t had an impressive record, even before he reached his current rank. His work on the Parry murders alone was legendary.

And yet these doubts come up, again and again. Yet never from anyone who’s worked with the man; there’s a reason Sherlock calls him the best of the Yard.

At the moment, however, ‘the best of the Yard’ isn’t radiating competence so much as exasperation. “I bring you in here because you can _help_. It stops being helpful the minute you start antagonising everyone.”

“You bring me in here because you need me,” Sherlock says, still speaking to Lestrade but turning his face to Donovan so that she has a clear view of his lips. “Because the rest of your—“

“Like you’re the only one here with sight,” Donovan spits out. Behind her, Anderson stifles a laugh behind his hand, pressing gloved fingers to his lips. John twitches the corner of his own mouth, trying to catch Anderson’s eye, but Anderson has never been inclined to pay much attention to John, all things considered.

Well then, he’ll deserve what he gets; it isn’t as though John didn’t try to warn him.

“I might as well be. The rest of you are _blind_.”

The last spills out of Sherlock's mouth with an ugly, exasperated sound that matches the ugliness of the sentiment, and John’s eyes flick to Lestrade’s face. There’s a tightening of the muscle at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t let the slur faze him. “The rest of my team are _doing their jobs_ , Sherlock. If you want to continue working with us, you will assist them in doing so. If you can't do that, you'll get out of the way.”

They’ve had this fight before, and they’ll have it again, because the truth is they need each other. Lestrade admitted as much the first night they met. John can still see Sherlock in his mind’s eye, bright-eyed and crouched low over the body of the woman wearing pink, rubbing the tips of his gloved fingers together. The only aceptive in the room, and the only one who noticed that her coat was damp.

Amazing. It was amazing then, and it’s no less so now. Of everyone in this room, John thinks he might be the only one who can really appreciate just how amazing it is, everyone else with their frame of reference just slightly askew. Even Sherlock doesn’t have the full picture.

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock snaps. “If that’s the way you intend to manage this investigation, I’m only too happy to _get out of your way_.” He turns the full force of his gaze on John, who drums his fingertips against his lower lip and directs a pointed look in Anderson’s direction. Sherlock spins on his heel and begins to stride from the room, pausing only briefly in the doorway—with his mouth out of the sightline of either Anderson or Donovan; John wonders if that’s intentional—to say over his shoulder, “Lestrade, tell Anderson to change his gloves. Doctor Watson says his current ones are contaminated.”

“Contaminated?”

“By his face,” Sherlock calls, already halfway to the street, and it’s all John can do to swallow the smile tugging at his lips as he hurries to follow.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Sherlock’s gaze slants sideways at him once they’re settled in the cab. “We're not abandoning the scene. I had ample opportunity to make note of everything important. When we get home I’ll send him an email with my conclusions.”

John laughs outright, a silent shudder of breath, at the utter predictability of it. Sherlock Holmes, always needing the last word, and if he has to give Lestrade what he wants to get it—in the format most convenient to _him_ , of course, the self-absorbed bastard—well. It doesn’t take a genius to see through Sherlock’s facade.

Sherlock hunches his shoulders and turns toward the window. “Oh, shut up.”

In the reflection on the glass, John can see that he’s smiling.

  


* * *

  


When John comes home from the surgery, Sherlock is waiting for him on the sofa. 

“I read your blog entry,” he says, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

John raises his eyebrows. Oh?

“You included my summary email. Practically verbatim.”

John nods. Yes, he had done that; the Aluminium Crutch case turned out to be a complicated one, in the end, and Sherlock had described it particularly well. John would have thought he would appreciate it, really—he’s always going on about how John gets things wrong in his “fanciful accounts” of their cases, and John has long since given up arguing with him about the necessity of translating experience into something comprehensible to the different senso-variants—but Sherlock’s brow is furrowed and John can see the muscle jumping in the side of his jaw.

Sherlock abruptly swings himself up to a seated position, planting his feet on the floor and balancing his elbows on his knees. His eyebrows are still drawn down into something halfway between a frown and a scowl.

It feels like a long time before Sherlock goes on.

John waits.

“While I appreciate that you at least managed to avoid saddling this case with one of your aphoristic titles,” Sherlock says at last, and John feels the corner of his mouth twitch up into a smile, “in future, it would be best for you to compose your entries yourself. Insofar as possible, of course.” 

John blinks at him, touching his tongue to his lip. Is Sherlock annoyed that John quoted him? No, that can't be it; he's never objected before. So that means that Sherlock, who’s never wrong, whose word is always the highest and final authority on any subject, is telling him— what?

There’s a pause while Sherlock searches John’s face, one hand wandering up to insinuate itself in his hair, tugging at a curl. John’s confusion must be plainly evident because Sherlock continues, speaking slowly as though weighing each word before giving voice to it. “There was little of your own— that is, it’s a useful endeavour for me to read the account as you would write it. Interpreted in your words.” The long muscles of his neck work as he swallows. “I find it… enlightening.”

When it becomes apparent that Sherlock isn’t going to continue, John tips his chin down in a nod. 

Sherlock is still staring at him, unmoving. John feels oddly exposed, pinned by his sharp gaze. 

They stand like that for what feels like a long time, just looking at each other; it’s John who finally breaks the connection, turning away to hang his coat on the hook by the door. His hands feel oddly disconnected, as though he isn’t quite in control of his own limbs. _Sherlock wants to hear what you have to say_ , he tells himself, turning the words over inside his head until he can practically taste them on his tongue, can feel the weight of them in the ache that settles in his throat and the warmth that's beginning to bloom in the space below his ribcage.

  


* * *

  


## The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

**2 September**

### The Aluminium Crutch

( [read more](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/02september) )

**21 comments**

—

Hope you don’t mind me looking you up, but I’m glad I did. We always said you’d get up to more trouble back home than you managed to find over here. I’m glad to see there’s hope for the rest of us poor sods.

Of course, some of us will find out sooner than others. I’ve been off my feet for the last few weeks. I guess the higher-ups finally got tired of feeding my sorry arse, because they’re shipping me back to London.

They’ll probably keep me in hospital for a bit, but they’ll have to let me out eventually. When they do, I’ll drop you a line.

_**G. Emsworth** , 3 September 2010_

—

I heard about your convoy being hit. I’m sorry, Godfrey. I know it’s not the homecoming you’d have chosen.

Of course, ring me when you’re up for it, I’ll show you what passes for entertainment in this town. 

And don’t let them keep you too long. Those doctors can be proper bastards, you know how medical types are. I'm always on hand if you need help staging a daring escape.

_**John Watson** , 3 September 2010_

—

Really, John? You think you’re in a position to comment on the tenacity of “medical types”?

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 10 September 2010_

— 

Yes, Sherlock, I do. And for good reason. 

(Don’t you have anything better to do than poke around a week-old entry in my blog? I thought you hated this one, anyway.)

_**John Watson** , 10 September 2010_

—

Don’t be facetious.

(I thought it merited reconsideration. And no.)

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 10 September 2010_

— 

I wouldn’t dream of it.

More to the point, I tend to trust the judgment of someone I’ve seen consistently demonstrating level-headed risk assessment, as opposed to you, who I’ve seen consistently behaving like an idiot.

(The mess you left in the kitchen begs to differ.)

_**John Watson** , 10 September 2010_

  


* * *

  


That night, John wakes gasping up at the ceiling, the nightmare already slipping away even as he fights himself up to consciousness. His own pulse is loud in his ears; beyond that, there's nothing but a horrible, pressure-filled silence.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Not again.

Godfrey. Godfrey with his dark hair and crooked smile, Godfrey who’d been— what? all of twenty-four?—when John was invalided, now on his own way home from Afghanistan, because he’d been broken in a way that couldn’t be made right. John knew about the ambushed convoy, and he isn’t so far removed from the war that he’s forgotten that those stories are attached to fragile, individual lives, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t rattled by it hitting so close to home.

Godfrey had been a munitions specialist in the unit with which John was stationed during his last tour, one of only two other aphones John met in Afghanistan. Like John, he already had some education under his belt by the time he enlisted and could easily have entered an officer training program, but the military career was something of a tradition in his family, and he wasn’t the sort to let his variant stop him. 

John knew a little something about that. 

He remembers the first time Godfrey came into the medic tent, limping just a little. He’d punctured the sole of his right foot during his last patrol. A relatively minor injury as these things go, but over the course of the tour it had developed an infection that spread all the way to the bone of his heel. 

John would have known what he was, even if he hadn’t seen the red ink adorning Godfrey’s wrist, from the wry twist of his mouth as he peeled down his dusty sock.

John had to write out the question; it wasn't one of the prepared stock he kept in his kit. _And you didn’t have it seen to at the time?_

The wry twist didn't leave Godfrey's mouth, and John could have guessed his response from that alone, but he waited patiently for Godfrey to write out his answer. His handwriting was cramped and untidy; Christ, the kid must have been having a hard time here. Hard enough for an aphone in conditions like this, even one who wasn’t spending most days with both hands wrapped around a weapon. 

Well. John knew a little something about that, too. There’s a reason they aren’t exactly encouraged to join the military, but that didn’t mean they didn't go in with their eyes wide open.

 _Hardly something worth blowing my siren for, is it_.

They’d shared a silent laugh at that, because— no, it probably wasn’t, and John would have made the same call in his place. John suspected Godfrey's TID, like John's own, spent the majority of its time in its case; between the unreliability of an electronic current to recharge it and the risk of damage to the screen, the only reasonable thing to do was save it for emergencies. To prioritise. 

Level-headed risk assessment, indeed.

And yet. It was that level-headed risk assessment that landed Godfrey here, in John's tent, even as John knows he would do the same again. So would John, come to that. It's the choice their sort always make, isn't it?

It’s wrong of him to miss the war, John knows that. And he doesn't, exactly, but he wouldn't be lying here blinking sweat out of his eyes if things were quite that simple.

He runs his hand over his open mouth, drops the crook of his elbow heavily over his eyes to block out the accusing blankness of the ceiling. When news like this filters back to him weeks, months after the fact, fleshed out by some startling new detail, he can't help wishing, thinking that— that he could have helped, maybe. Done something different, or at least known for sure that he’d done everything he could.

But— no. No, he couldn’t, because of his bloody shoulder and his fucking _hearing_. He can still feel the weight of Cornell’s body covering his own, the air thick with dust and silence and his own hand out of his control, like it didn't even belong to him, and he—

No. No, he couldn’t have helped. He should accept that. Could accept it, almost. Near enough.

John lies in the silent darkness for a long time, breathing shakily into the cool night air, trying to relax his muscles through force of will.

He must eventually slip back down into sleep, because he wakes to light streaming through his window, bringing with it the comfortable cacophony of a morning in central London.

It isn’t until he makes his way downstairs and hears Sherlock’s sleep-roughened “Good morning, John” that he remembers how heavily the silence had weighed on him the night before.

  


* * *

  


## HELP WANTED

In-home companion for anoptic OAP who recently lost her husband. No pets or major health concerns.

Compensation negotiable; references required. Sighted and phonic variants preferred.

Please inquire 07798364708. Ask for Martha.

  


* * *

  


## The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

**2 September**

### The Aluminium Crutch

( [read more](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/02september) )

**24 comments**

—

WHOM you’ve seen consistently behaving like an idiot. For someone so enamoured of the written word, you’re dishearteningly lax with its fundamentals.

(Thank you.)

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 11 September 2010_

— 

Now who’s being facetious?

(No problem. Couldn’t sleep.)

_**John Watson** , 11 September 2010_

—

Still you. In that regard, you are to be commended for your consistency.

(Clearly.)

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 11 September 2010_


	3. Touch

[ ](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/59266.html)

  


From: -number withheld-  18:27  
Let's have dinner. Brixton? I know the perfect place.

  


* * *

  


## Notice: School Enrolment Deadlines

Parents are reminded that enrolment paperwork for students entering Reception must be submitted by 15 May.

Variant testing begins 15 March and must be completed by 1 May. Please contact your local school administration or NHS provider for details.

Due to the opening of a new Ageusic/Anosmic secondary school in N6, some redistricting has been required. Redistricted families should have received notification, but parents of Ageusic and Anosmic students should check the Department of Education website against potential changes.

Parents are advised that, to minimise complications and child discomfort, all follow-up appointments regarding variant marker tattoos and insertions be scheduled prior to 1 August.

  


* * *

  


_Tesco:_

\- sugar

\- some sort of protein S might actually eat (suggestions welcome)

  


\- Chicken, if you must

\- Hydrogen peroxide

\- Muriatic acid

Don't tell me you're intending to bleach your hair. As the last is not available at Tesco I'm assuming it's meant as a joke about vitriol and ignoring it.

Not a joke. -SH

  


_Things Sherlock can pick up himself:_

\- Muriatic acid

  


* * *

  


It's early one Tuesday morning in November when John comes downstairs to find Sherlock bent over the kitchen table with a blanket draped over his head and shoulders. He doesn't look up at the sound of John's bare feet against the kitchen tile.

Right. John holds the kettle under the tap, rubbing his free hand over his face. It's hardly the strangest thing he's ever walked in on. John grimaces internally at the memory of the time he'd come downstairs, not yet even half awake, only to have Sherlock grab him by the shoulders and practically throw him to the ground, demanding he play the part of the victim in some case he'd read about overnight. John had spent nearly three hours on the floor that morning while Sherlock dripped various types of mud on his limbs.

Small mercies, John thinks; at least this morning he'll have time for a cuppa first.

It takes ninety seconds for him to notice the empty vial on the counter and read its label. He frowns at it in puzzlement; then his eyes slide to the bin, on the top of which is perched a crumpled wrapper that must recently have contained a sterile syringe. 

Twenty-five seconds after that, John has Sherlock pinned against the open windowsill with one arm locked across his shoulders. John's other hand is fisted in Sherlock's hair, holding his head out the window so he can breathe the fresh air.

"John." It comes out thick, the numbing agent turning Sherlock's tongue slow and clumsy, forcing the vowel to the front of his mouth. " _John._ Stop, it's fine—"

 _It's not fine_ , John wants to say, but both his hands are occupied with keeping Sherlock still, holding Sherlock's head as far from the noxious air in the flat as possible.

"—just an experiment," Sherlock continues. The words blur against his tongue— _essberrment_ , in that voice that's usually so crisp and precise—and John's anger flares so bright he's temporarily blinded by it. What the hell, just what the bloody fucking hell did Sherlock think he was doing? The odour from the chemicals Sherlock was breathing is so sharp it burns the inside of John's nostrils. He can taste it, metallic and heavy on his tongue, and he's only been exposed to it diffused through the rest of the air in the flat, not concentrated under a blanket, breathing it in for who-knows-how long. Christ. _Christ._

Sherlock gets his fingers around the window frame and tries to use the leverage to pull himself fully inside but John is solid and determined behind him, doesn't let Sherlock move back far enough to get the full strength of his shoulders behind his efforts.

John holds them there, using his weight to pin Sherlock to the windowsill, until Sherlock stops struggling. John feels the tension leave Sherlock’s back, replaced by the easy rise-fall of Sherlock’s ribcage as he simply breathes. The knot of anxiety in John's chest eases until at last he relents, releasing his grip and stepping back so Sherlock can straighten at the waist.

Sherlock adjusts the neck of his tee shirt before he turns to face John. "It's for the case in Brixton," he says, narrowing his eyes and peering at John down the length of his nose. It comes out as _Bishdon_. John's hand clenches convulsively at his side. "Everyone assumed it was murder, but it must have been suicide." The words are slurred and slow, the frustration of it creasing Sherlock's brow.

Here. _Here_. John reaches into his pocket and pulls out his TID, offering it to Sherlock with a steady hand.

Sherlock blinks twice at John before he takes the device. His gaze drops to the screen, thumbs flying over the keys as he taps out what his tongue is too numb to enunciate clearly.

The sharp smell rising from the vial on the table is still hanging in the air, making John's nasal cavities prickle and his eyes water. He picks it up—knocking the used needle to the floor in the process—and moves to the sink, looking to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes flick up and he nods, quickly, so John dumps the noxious substance down the sink and runs the tap until the smell begins to dissipate.

John sets the flask down hard and leans against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck as he watches Sherlock still tapping away at John's TID. The sight of Sherlock forced to mediate himself through the tiny keyboard hurts, somehow, in a way John never would have expected. It tugs at the ache in his chest, at the soles of his feet.

How could Sherlock have been so stupid, so idiotically self-destructive? He knows the dangers of toying with his remaining senses—hell, he knows them better than most people; he'd been on the case out in Brighton after that distracted chef accidentally used the wrong emulsifier and nearly deadened the noses of an entire restaurant full of ageusic patrons. And that wasn't even deliberate, while _this_ —

"John." In Sherlock's mouth, John's name dissolves into a mush of sound. It makes John's teeth grind together but he turns, eyebrows raised in question.

Sherlock holds the TID out so John can read it. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his left hand.

The poison gives off a distinct odour for at least thirty minutes after being heated. Colman couldn't taste it but he must have known it was in the soup as soon as his wife set the bowl in front of him. He was complicit. Not murder; assisted suicide.

John reads the words once. Blinks, touches his tongue to his lip, fights to control his breathing. Reads them again.

Right.

 _Right_.

John forces himself to take a long inhale against the swell of anger in his chest. All this, and Sherlock has gained— what? Nothing that he couldn't have learned by other means. Colman is already dead; there's no urgency but Sherlock's own impatience. Deadening his sense of taste to determine whether the poison's strong odour would have been less noticeable to an ageusic—and then exposing himself to the sort of noxious fumes that would potentially do very real damage to the delicate linings of his nose and throat, damage that might be undetected until it was too late because he deliberately impaired the sense that would do so—isn't only foolhardy. It's _unnecessary_. Bloody hell, John could have told Sherlock what he needed to know. There are whole medical journals devoted to the subject, if Sherlock had just thought to ask instead of rushing ahead, throwing himself headlong into whatever puzzle momentarily tickled his fancy.

Does Sherlock even know what he was risking? He isn't exactly a trained medical professional; potential damage to his olfactory system is bad enough, but that's far from the extent of it. John's mind is full of textbook illustrations of necrotic tissue, fizzled-out spiderwebs of damaged nerves. The needle could have hit one of Sherlock's lingual ganglia, left him with numbness and halting speech; worse, left him silenced.

No, not silenced, John tells himself. Not silenced and, if they were lucky, not anosmic. He saw the labels on the bottle; the anaesthetic will wear off in a few hours, and Sherlock will be fine. John swallows hard, willing himself to believe it. Even so, losing a second sense— and as an adult, without the assistance of artificial biomechanical feedback during his formative years to help shape the necessary compensatory neural pathways— isn't something one willingly risks, no matter how small that risk may be. How could Sherlock be so reckless?

John recalls waking up in military hospital after the explosion, the icy dread that gripped him during the long silent minutes before he worked up the nerve to raise a hand to his head to feel the bandages swaddling his ears. The terror of it alone was enough that the ache in his shoulder—the injury that would get him invalided home—faded to mere background sensation. Even knowing his hearing was likely to return hadn't dispelled the sick, helpless feeling in his chest; he'd woken in a cold sweat, again and again, until the night when he was startled out of sleep by the faint beeping of the bedside monitors, relief flooding him so hard he shook with it. 

Sherlock is playing with a sort of fire he can't possibly understand. 

John can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, the heat of the challenge in his gaze. There’s nothing to be gained by hiding now, and a great deal to be lost. John forces himself to lift his chin and meet Sherlock’s gaze with as much evenness as he can muster. There’s the flicker of a shadow behind the pale eyes, but neither of them look away. 

"I was careful," Sherlock says, still slurred, swiping the back of his hand along his lip to wipe away the saliva that has once again collected at the corner of his mouth. 

John thinks, _Not careful enough_. 

Sherlock's eyes don't leave John's face; John can't let himself look away. Sherlock holds out the TID and John takes it, places it back into his pocket without so much as glancing at it again. It's still warm from the heat of Sherlock's hand; John imagines that, if he looked at the keys, he could see the smudges left by Sherlock's fingers. The thought sends another wave of anger blooming up his spine. No, better not to look. Better to just— just put it away. He doesn't trust what he might say right now, in any case.

Sherlock nods, a small downward jerk of his chin. When he speaks, his voice is low and quiet. "And now I know."

  


* * *

  


To: Sherlock Holmes 17:34  
I'm ordering a curry, if you want one.

  


To: Sherlock Holmes 22:11  
There's takeaway for you in the fridge when you get home.

  


To: Sherlock Holmes 07:14  
Off to the surgery. Let me know you're alive or I'm contacting your brother.

  


From: Sherlock Holmes 07:14  
Working. -SH

  


To: Sherlock Holmes 07:15  
Knew that'd work. Is this about those texts you've been getting?

  


From: Sherlock Holmes 07:23  
If there were a reason for you to be involved, I would have involved you already. - SH

  


To: Sherlock Holmes 18:57  
Client. Should I tell her to come back?

  


From: Sherlock Holmes 18:59  
On my way. Ten minutes. - SH

  


* * *

  


John slips his phone back into his pocket and turns to face Irene Adler, who is perched on the edge of John's desk chair, peering at him through narrowed eyes. 

He nods to her and she leans forward, spreading her legs wide and balancing her elbows on her knees, gaze never leaving his face. 

Her lips twist up into a smile. "Your man certainly is eager to impress, isn't he." It's less question than accusation. John presses his lips together, trying to school his features into neutrality, but he can't help noticing the triumphant gleam in her eyes as he settles himself into his armchair.

Sherlock, eager to impress? Well, yes—he's a show-off, unabashedly so—but John finds himself wondering whether there might be more going on here than Sherlock's desire to demonstrate his skills in front of an audience. Has he agreed to come so quickly because he knows precisely who's waiting for him in the sitting room? John is inclined to put the business with the photographs in the win column—Sherlock had successfully prevented her from using them for blackmail, albeit inadvertently so, by activating one of the acid packs hidden inside the phone's motherboard—but Sherlock's continued fascination with her led John to suspect he considered her a puzzle yet unsolved. She's been lurking around the edges of their lives ever since they met her, after all; even John isn't particularly surprised that she's sitting there in the flat.

They wait in silence. Irene crosses and uncrosses her legs, tapping her heel idly against the base of the chair. She folds her hands in her lap, her right wrist angled slightly upward to display her tattoo, the navy blue line with its two raised dots that marks her as an aceptive. Hardly unusual in the sex industry, of course—John's watched enough late-night telly that he can recall the ads from memory, rough voices promising potential clients that _all I want is pleasure, and all I can have is yours_ —but Irene is no escort, no submissive for hire.

John considers the hard lines of her profile. He wonders, not for the first time, what sort of person would willingly put themselves in the physical control of someone whose own body is incapable of processing any sensation but pain. Someone who's curious, he supposes; someone impulsive, easily bored, with no sense of self preservation. 

Well, then. Good thing he doesn't know anyone who fits that description.

It only takes a moment for his amusement to morph into something else entirely. John swallows hard, shoving the thought from his mind.

Irene shifts again. Her face is impassive, her eyes levelled cooly at the door in anticipation of Sherlock's arrival. John recognises her attitude from an entirely different context: Preparing to do battle.

His hand is already moving of its own volition, pulling his TID from his pocket. Surely it will do no harm to send Sherlock a text, to warn him— well, it's not that he needs a _warning_ , precisely, but—

But it's too late, because the door is swinging open and Sherlock is there.

He pauses briefly in the doorway, just long enough to meet John's eye—some of the tension in John's chest eases at the assurance he can read on Sherlock's face—then turns to unwind his scarf and hang his coat on the hook by the door. His back is still to her when he speaks. "Miss Adler."

“Mr Holmes.” She doesn't move from her seat when he turns to face her. "You aren't surprised to see me."

In the overhead light, Sherlock's eyes are so pale they're practically colourless. "No," he says. He begins to peel off his gloves, pinching each finger in turn, working his hands free of the leather by degrees. "No, I'm really not."

There's a pause before Irene laughs, a harsh, quick sound. Sherlock's cheek twitches up into a smile. 

"But you _have_ been receiving my texts."

John wonders if she always phrases her questions as statements, or if it's an affectation reserved for Sherlock's presence.

Sherlock makes a noncommittal humming noise, tossing his gloves on the kitchen table on his way to the sitting room.

Irene presses him, brow furrowing slightly. "You never respond."

Sherlock drops himself onto the sofa, half-sprawled with one knee hitched up on the cushions. He waves a long-fingered hand in dismissal. "Oh, _dull_."

"Rude," Irene counters without missing a beat. "And it means you owe me. For Brixton."

The pieces of information fall together in John's mind like the alignment of the tumblers in a lock: Brixton; the text he saw on Sherlock's phone; Sherlock's reckless experiment with the noxious gas a few mornings ago. John feels his mouth come open; forces it closed again, touching his tongue to his lip. Christ, as though it weren't foolish enough that Sherlock was willing to risk himself that way, just to prove a point, but— to do so because Irene suggested it? Jesus. If Sherlock would do that for Irene, maybe he wasn't so misguided in his earlier speculation about her client base after all. _Brixton_. John hears it in Sherlock's voice, slurred by a tongue numbed with anaesthetic. The same slurred voice in which Sherlock had called for him, fresh welts rising against the pale skin of his cheek, still groggy and stumbling from the drugs Irene had given him.

Bloody hell, Sherlock. John wants to grab him by the shoulder and shake some sense into him. A wave of frustration so great that it clouds his vision surges up John's spine. He grits his teeth and swallows it down. His hand clenches; he could grab his TID, lay into Sherlock now, but— no, not with Irene here. Instead, he forces himself to look at Sherlock. Sherlock returns his gaze, the expression in those pale eyes unreadable.

"I do owe you," Sherlock says slowly, eyes never leaving John's face. "For the information." He breaks John's gaze, finally, turning the full force of a glare on Irene. "You've brought me something."

"I have." She holds out her phone. Sherlock snatches it from her fingers and immediately begins to scroll through the contents on the screen. "There's someone I'm trying to find."

"Does this 'someone' have a name?"

"Almost surely. Though if I knew it, it seems rather unlikely I'd need your assistance in finding him."

Sherlock makes a skeptical sound, low in his throat. 

"Please understand, Mr Holmes, what an unusual position it is in which I find myself. I've been told I'm an easy woman to talk to. Usually my clients are— quite forthcoming." There's a curl of amusement in her tone; Sherlock doesn't look up from the mobile screen, but John doesn't miss the twitch of his cheek. "But there's security around this man, records requiring access levels I've never encountered before."

At this, Sherlock's face takes on a pained expression. "Yes, fine, that's all well and good, but so far you haven't told me a thing that makes me want to take this case."

A smile slides across Irene's mouth, no sooner there than gone. "God, _men_. Always wanting to rush the big finish, no regard at all for pacing. The things I could teach you about—" she brings a hand up to set her fingertips lightly against her cheek, tilting her head slightly to one side "— anticipation."

Sherlock just quirks an eyebrow at her; she responds with a short, bitter laugh.

"Give a girl some credit. I've been saving the best for last." She leans back, eyes shining. "Our missing man is a pansensual."

There's a long, attenuated moment while Sherlock and Irene stare at one another.

John shakes his head, looking back and forth between them, unvoicable questions trapped in the tense curl of his fingers. He's never encountered anyone with use of all five senses, even during his medical training. It's long been known to be a possibility, of course, but documented cases are vanishingly rare, and all of the subjects are recorded as presenting with delusions, paranoia, psychosis. The human brain, according to medical science, is simply not equipped to process that much input. The mere thought of it is enough to make John's heart pound in his chest; he can only imagine what Sherlock must be thinking.

It's Sherlock who finally breaks the silence. He draws in a ragged inhale before speaking. "And. Once you've found him."

"None of your concern," Irene says, too quickly. Then, after a moment of consideration: "We want him for the same reason you want him."

“That’s presuming I want him.” 

"There are more of them out there than you realise, Mr Holmes. Each, a valuable asset in his own way."

"And this one is valuable enough to be a matter of national security." Sherlock retrieves Irene's mobile from where it had fallen on the sofa, passing it from palm to palm in a gesture that, in anyone else, John would read as nervousness. 

Irene presses her lips together, watching him. When she speaks, her voice is measured and deliberate: "Oh, Sherlock. Aren't they all?"

Sherlock’s exhale breaks into a laugh, the sound emerging at the same moment John's TID buzzes with an incoming text. John slides it from his pocket.

From: -number withheld- 19:42  
don't interfere

_What_? Clearly the message is from Sherlock, but how— 

John turns to him for an explanation, but Sherlock is ignoring him. He must have sent the message without looking. As if to confirm John's suspicions Sherlock flips the mobile in the air, once, catching it again without breaking eye contact with Irene. 

"But why would I go to all the trouble of circumventing national security in pursuit of some unnamed individual," Sherlock says, voice measured and even, "when I have you right here?"

Irene hisses in a harsh breath through her teeth. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, you heard me." Sherlock doesn't quite roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. "It's obvious. Well, perhaps not _too_ obvious, I will admit it took me nearly ten minutes to work it out after meeting you. And even then I confess I had my doubts, but you've confirmed it for me just now."

Irene just shakes her head, once. Her cheeks are bright with colour, her lips pressed together into a firm line.

"'Pansensual'? Unlikely enough that anyone would use that term in this day and age, much less someone in your line of work. So, a deliberate affectation employed as misdirection." Sherlock breathes out a laugh. "Transparent. Utterly. Amateurish in the extreme." Irene's lip twists into a harsh scowl. "So. A quins masquerading as an aceptive, hiding in plain sight." 

"It's convinced a lot of people," Irene says. "It was good enough to fool your doctor here, and he had his hands all over me."

John can feel heat rising in his cheeks, recalling the bright glint of amusement in her eye at his insistence that he be permitted to check her for weapons when she first arrived in the flat. _I only want to talk to him,_ she'd promised, eyebrow quirking up in amusement, _but if the house insists._ She'd spread her legs as wide as the slim cut of her skirt allowed, holding her arms at shoulder height, held perfectly still as his hands skimmed up the line of her leg. _Do try to be gentle._

There's a tightening of the skin at the corner of Sherlock's eye. “Again, Miss Adler, why do you think I'd want to find your man when I have you right here?"

Irene takes a long inhale, considering, before she speaks. "Because you owe me," she says, "and because it's not me you want to study." Her eyes flick briefly to John, then back to Sherlock. "He didn't know what he was, Sherlock. He has no experience with concealment. Unlike me." Her mouth splits into a grin. "Think of the possibilities."

"You want to use him."

"Don't be obtuse," Irene counters. "I want to learn from him."

Sherlock makes a low, growling sound and turns, twisting his shoulders against the back of the sofa cushions. Irene is looming over him in an instant, one hand fisted in his curls, yanking his head back to expose the line of his throat. He scowls up at her but doesn't raise his arm to break her grip; instead, he holds up a hand, palm forward, in John's direction, a silent reminder for him to stay put.

 _Yes, well_ , John thinks, shifting to the edge of his seat, muscles tensed in preparation for ignoring Sherlock's directive, _we'll see about that._

Irene leans in close, lips brushing the edge of Sherlock's ear, her voice near enough to a whisper that John can scarcely make out the words. "I deal in secrets, Mr Holmes, and I don't give mine up so easily." She uses her grip on his hair to pull his head to the side, forcing him to brace a hand against the sofa in order to remain upright. "You're going to do what I ask, because I know what you are." She reaches out a hand to run one fingernail slowly along Sherlock's cheek, down over the harsh line of his jaw, along the ridge of tendon standing in his throat. Sherlock's eyes fall closed and he breathes out a shivery sigh through parted lips. "I know what you could be."

Irene releases Sherlock with one last harsh tug on his hair; he lands sideways on the sofa, propped awkwardly on one elbow. Irene snatches her mobile from his hand and is out the door before John even has a chance to react.

Sherlock and John just look at each other, listening to the sound of her quick footsteps skimming down the steps to the ground floor. They're both breathing hard; there's a bright spot of colour high on each of Sherlock's cheekbones.

"Oh," Sherlock says, his voice breaking into a chuckle as the door to the street slams closed. "She's _good_."

  


* * *

  


Sherlock unfolds abruptly from the sofa and begins to pace the length of the sitting room, thumbs flying over the keys of his mobile. He's muttering to himself, completely absorbed, leaving John to stare down at the blank screen of his TID. There are enough questions bouncing around inside his skull that he doesn't even know where to begin.

No, actually, scratch that; he knows _exactly_ where to begin.

To: Sherlock Holmes 19:33  
What the hell, Sherlock?

Sherlock pulls up short when the mobile vibrates in his hand, then spins on his heel to face John.

“If you have a _specific_ question, John, you’d do well to ask it.”

John shrugs, dropping both hands heavily onto the arms of his chair. Sherlock tips his chin up to regard John along the length of his nose.

Oh, fine then.

To: Sherlock Holmes 19:34  
And you’re just going to take her case? After everything?

“Problem?”

John just looks at Sherlock, letting his thoughts play across his face. After a moment Sherlock sighs, the hard lines of his mouth softening.

"Of course not, but you can't tell me— _John_." The corner of Sherlock's mouth crumples into a smile, his eyes gleaming with genuine interest. "Whoever her man is, he must be worth finding.You didn't think I'd pass up a chance like this, did you? I've only had the opportunity to meet one quinsensual, which—" 

John doesn't even get the TID in position before Sherlock forges ahead, answering the question John hasn't yet asked. 

"Jefferson Hope, John. But of course in that instance I hardly had time for more than the most cursory of observations."

John stares at him. The— Sherlock is talking about the cab driver. John can still feel the spiral sensation of adrenaline and icy fear gripping his chest at the memory: watching as Sherlock put the pill to his lips with two panes of glass between them, leaving John with no choice but to use the only tool he had. And now, Sherlock is saying— what, exactly? That for him the outcome of that night was the lost opportunity to— 

_Oh, for fuck's sake_.

Sherlock's face is the picture of exasperation. "No, John. It's true that our interaction was curtailed, but I doubt my observations of Hope would have proven satisfactory, even given ample time to make them." He taps two fingers to his temple. "Already too far along. Not an ideal test subject."

John finds himself nodding as he considers this. Brain aneurysm as a result of the strain on a system overtaxed by the lack of buffer provided by each of the variants' deficits: probably not a verifiable theory, but not out of keeping with John's own medical training, either, though much of his education—okay, _all_ of his education—on the subject has been more theoretical than practical.

Sherlock folds himself into the chair opposite John's, hands resting on his drawn-up knees. Not saying anything, but not taking his eyes from John’s face, either.

Well. No use putting it off. John types the letters out carefully.

To: Sherlock Holmes 19:37  
And what, precisely, does she want with you?

Sherlock reads the screen, tension apparent in the corners of his eyes and the rigid lines of his shoulders. There's a long pause before he nods, a quick jerk of his chin as though he's decided something. He sets his mobile face-down on the side table. John is on the verge of grabbing it and shoving it back into Sherlock's hands— _you can't just categorically ignore me, if I have something to say to you you'd better bloody well listen_ —until he notices the way Sherlock is tugging at a small handful of his own hair. Something about the self-conscious gesture keeps John in his seat, hands curled lightly along the tops of the armrests.

Sherlock appears to become aware of what he's doing at the same moment John does; he drops his hand quickly, breathing out a rueful puff of air. His left fingertips find the inside of his right wrist, absently tracing the tattoo there. He sets his index and middle finger against the two bumps embedded in his skin under the bar of blue ink and presses lightly, releases, presses again.

John doesn't know what prompts him to do it, really, but he leans forward, reaching out a hand to set it against the back of Sherlock's right wrist. 

"Pain and pressure," Sherlock says slowly. He's staring down at John's hand, hair falling over his forehead to cast a shadow over his eyes. "That's— that's all I'm meant to have, right?" He slips his left hand out from beneath his right one and circles the narrowest part of John's wrist with thumb and forefinger, exerting slight pressure to lift John's hand, slowly. "But— that. I can." Sherlock slides his right hand back and forth against the underside of John's palm. John is aware of the tiny shifts of Sherlock's metacarpals beneath the thin layer of muscle, the catch of the callus at the base of his thumb against the smooth surface of Sherlock's skin. 

“I can feel that." Sherlock’s voice closes low and tight around the words. 

John stares at him. Sherlock's cheeks are flushed, his pulse hammering so hard John can actually see its movement in his throat. When Sherlock lifts his pale eyes to meet John's gaze, his pupils are dilated. 

Perhaps he's ill, John thinks, already running through his mental list of possible ailments that could lead Sherlock to this particular variety of delusion. Some sort of neurological disorder, or madness. It isn't outside the realm of possibility. That, or Sherlock has simply used his other senses to fill in the missing input and convinced himself that his body can do something which all of medical science has demonstrated is impossible. Sherlock hasn't had any recent head injuries, at least to John's knowledge, but— 

"Believe me, John, when I say that I've already considered every possibility that's occurred to you, and a few more besides." Sherlock's lip twists into a rueful smile. "Hypersensitivity to touch, when combined with a disorder of the afferent nerves responsible for the processing of pain, presents in a nearly identical manner. All but the most subtle epidermal sensations present as pain, which the brain—" the muscles at Sherlock's temple jump as he flexes his jaw "— cannot detect. And so."

Sherlock releases John's wrist so that it drops heavily, John's palm coming to rest against the back of Sherlock's right hand.

John blinks, swallows hard around nothing. Hypoalgesia, combined with— it's impossible. Sherlock is an aceptive. Whatever this is, what he's saying, is— it's simply not a viable variant. John looks pointedly at the inside of Sherlock's left wrist, rolls his own left forearm over to display the pattern there. His meaning must be clear enough; Sherlock's eyes darken with irritation.

"Yes, John, I was tested along with every other child, and categorised accordingly. To the extent to which any single term applies, I suppose 'aceptive' is the nearest approximation." He's speaking quickly, the consonants close-clipped, the corner of his lip curling up into a grimace. "That doesn't change the fact that it's _wrong_."

John has a sudden mental image of Irene's hand on Sherlock's cheek, the way his lips had fallen open when she drew her fingers across his skin. There are other images there, too: Sherlock turning John's mobile over in his hands, that first night in the cab, nothing like the way he'd seen Harry manipulate objects when they were growing up. Sherlock flinching when someone unexpectedly invaded his space. 

And yes, it might go against everything John knows as a doctor—not only that, against everything he knows as a person with experience of the world—and yet. There's a pattern emerging, just enough tiny discrepancies and missing pieces to suggest that there might be something to what Sherlock is saying. 

John touches his tongue to his lip.

Sherlock gives a noisy exhale. "I'm sorry, John, I know it's— contrary to what you understand." His eyes fall closed, just for a moment, little more than a blink, then opens them again, watching his own hands where they rest against the tops of his thighs.

"It was Mycroft who finally figured it out," Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on his hands. "Not before I'd been tracked, or I'd doubtless have ended up in a lab somewhere. A near enough thing in any case, but—" Sherlock takes a deep breath, lets it out in something that’s not quite a laugh. "How much do you know about the experiments in sensory consciousness conducted in the seventies?"

Not much. John has a vague idea that they might have involved giving anoptic test subjects LSD and other psychotropic drugs in an attempt to stimulate the visual nerve clusters in the brain. He’d always considered them about on par with the psy ops special forces he’d heard about in the early days of his enlistment: wishful thinking at best, outright lies at worst. Nothing of value to anyone with boots on the ground.

“My father was working as a researcher in one of the facilities up north when my mother—aceptive, that’s where I get it—was brought in as one of the test subjects. She carried a genetic marker that indicated she might be a candidate for variant modification. It took them nearly three years to disabuse themselves of that particular notion.” 

John grits his teeth against the images that arise unbidden in his mind, imaginings born of half-remembered rumours. Experimentation meant to derive the precise sensory threshold of someone whose body is only capable of processing pain, and over that long a time— Christ. But Sherlock has made clear what John’s role in the conversation is, and getting himself worked up over something long past is hardly going to help matters, so John shoves the thoughts away and waits for Sherlock to continue.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, then waves one hand as though what he’s said can be dismissed with a gesture. “The records are long gone, most likely destroyed before they left the facility. Mycroft was born within a year of their arrival in London. I imagine there was some apprehension as to the effects the testing might have had, but given my family’s genetic history, when he tested as a dual, everything seemed— normal.”

John nods his understanding. The combination of chromosomes resulting in an individual manifesting both ageusia and anosmia is relatively unusual—approximately eight percent of the male population, making it the second-smallest variant group, with aphones like John being the smallest—but well within the expected range, and hardly surprising among families as well-situated as the Holmes’ seem to be. The statistical correlation between wealth and variant type is hardly ironclad, but as a predictor it’s far from useless. The strict employment laws put in place to counter variant discrimination could do little to address historical wealth accumulation left over from before the rapid advancement of technology during the last half-century, and the practice of specialised education still means that many avenues available in theory are closed off in reality.

Of course, all advances have their drawbacks, don’t they? Forty years ago, prior to the development of the oral biofeedback sensors that allow anaural children to develop verbal speech patterns indistinguishable from the rest of the population, the ubiquity of sign language would have made John’s textual input device almost entirely unnecessary. Growing up as part of the first modern generation without compulsory instruction in BSL—even Harry never learned beyond the most rudimentary basics—has made John keenly aware of the impact of the abrupt schism between the capabilities of anaurals and the statistically insignificant aphonic population.

“It was no great surprise when I tested as an aceptive. It wasn’t until Mycroft returned from his first year at uni—I was twelve—that anyone noticed anything unusual at all.” Sherlock’s upper lip peels up into a sneer. “Incompetent educators at that primary school never saw what was right in front of them. That is, functionally I _am_ , of course, but what use is all their _specialisation_ if—“ 

Sherlock cuts himself off with a harsh shake of his head, once, visibly trying to swallow his anger. John is abruptly aware of the shape of his feet inside his shoes, against the nap of the carpet. 

_What was there to see?_ he wants to ask. _What might have been there if it had been me?_ But he forces his hands to remain still.

“One of Mycroft’s flatmates was aceptive, and when he came home for interim he started observing me more closely. Distance does lend a certain perspective in— when one is attempting to solve a particularly troublesome problem.” He breathes out a quick laugh. “Once he identified analgesia, the hypersensitivity followed logically enough. ‘Neat and perverse,’ that’s what he calls it; I think he believes I’ve somehow done it to annoy him.” Sherlock’s eyes flick up to meet his, a quick flash of grey-blue, suffused with humour. John’s mouth stretches into an answering grin. “My father didn’t believe him, at first, and we all concealed it from my mother for nearly a year— at first because my father was afraid she would blame herself, and then because he thought she would disapprove of him continuing the experiment.”

At that, whatever momentary amusement they’d been able to find abruptly dissipates. John runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth, fighting down the rising ache in his chest.

Sherlock leans back, turning his arm to stare at the mark on the inside of his wrist. When he speaks, his voice evinces a careful, practised detachment. “Perfectly reasonable, John. Progress had been made, no sense letting it go to waste.” His lip quirks up into a rueful smile. “… was the idea, at any rate. In practise, the effect was not quite what one might hope. Rather the opposite; rather than decreasing my epidermal hypersensitivity, it had… deleterious effects on my tastebuds. I'm still incapable of processing anything but bitter and sweet.

“That year I grew three inches and lost nearly two stone. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to see that something was amiss, though of course Mummy was. She put a stop to it a few weeks before my thirteenth birthday.” The noise he makes isn’t anything like a laugh. “I’m afraid my appetite has never quite recovered.”

John closes his eyes and runs his hand over his face. His mind is full of images of Sherlock pushing food around his plate, the sharp angles of his shoulders beneath the fine fabric of his shirts. _Christ_. His fingertips itch with the urge to reach out to Sherlock, to soothe and reassure, offering with his touch what he cannot with his tongue. Instead he folds his hands in his own lap, forcing himself to take deep breaths while he waits for Sherlock to continue.

“We resumed the treatment after her death. I— perhaps I was too old, by then. Fifteen. Within two months I lost the colour red. That time, I put an end to it myself.” His voice breaks into a rueful laugh. “I have excellent hearing, though, you’ll be glad to know.”

There’s a rush of heat up the back of John’s neck: anger with Sherlock for treating it like a joke; outright, blinding rage at the absolutely careless treatment of what must have been a young and curious Sherlock at the hands of people who purported to care about his well-being. He drops his head into his hands, abruptly aware of the hammering of his pulse in his ears. 

“It’s _not important_ ,” Sherlock snaps. The furious intensity of the statement catches John by surprise; he looks up to see Sherlock with his head tipped back against the top of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. “That was the end of it. Though after my GCSEs—“ The long muscles of his throat work as he swallows once, then twice, clearly fighting to regain control of himself. “They went poorly, as you can imagine. I got the right answers but couldn’t demonstrate the methodology they wanted, and those blind idiots on the review board refused to see that it _doesn’t matter_. After that I tried a variety of chemical enhancements, some of my own devising." He slants a sideways glance in John's direction, a harsh sound rising from this throat. "Oh, don’t look at me like that, John, there were no lasting effects. But nothing ever— I couldn’t—”

There’s an abrupt flurry of movement as Sherlock pushes himself away from the back of the sofa, angling his body forward to balance his elbows on his knees. His pale eyes are bright and shining; John finds himself wondering how much of what Sherlock has just told him he’s ever admitted to before.

“So, John, whatever she thinks she wants from me, when she says she knows what I am, what I could— she’s _wrong_.”

They hold each other's gaze for the space of several long seconds, John's hands clenching and unclenching against the tops of his thighs as he struggles to process everything Sherlock has just told him. Sherlock's lips part around a harsh exhale; he shoves himself to his feet with a growl of frustration. His bedroom door slams shut before John has a chance to react, leaving John alone with his thoughts in the abruptly empty room.

It doesn’t change anything, John tells himself; or, at least, nothing that matters. He stares down at his own hands, balled into fists in his lap. Nothing that matters. Sherlock is still the same odd, brilliant man he’s always been. So why this sudden need to _touch_ , to feel the pressure of his fingertips against Sherlock’s skin, in his hair?

Professional atonement, perhaps, for those doctors who had failed to see him for what he was all those years ago? He can imagine Sherlock at seventeen, struggling through his entrance exams because the compensatory mechanisms taught through his tiered education were geared toward those _not like him_ , the mocking indelibility of the tattooed mark on his wrist that designated him a permanent member of a group to which he could never quite belong.

John touches the fingertips of his left hand to the mark on his own wrist. He can still hear the voice of the officer who’d handed John his enlistment papers: “Are you sure, son? It’s dangerous out there for a boy like you.”

 _It’s dangerous for everyone_ , he’d wanted to say, _that’s the whole **point**_ , but what he wanted more than that was his signature on the line, so he’d kept his grip on the pen and said nothing. He’d made his choice.

  


* * *

  


Sherlock’s door is still closed when John leaves for the surgery the next morning. John considers knocking, but in the end decides against it; if Sherlock has decided to get some sleep, for once, best to leave him to it. No sense interrupting that for the sake of the vague unease in John’s chest.

The day passes swiftly, with enough patients to keep John’s mind occupied, but not so many that he can’t take the time he needs with each of them. By the time his shift ends he’s tired, but it’s the exhaustion of an honest day’s work well done. It isn’t until he’s descending the escalator at the tube station that he realises he hasn’t received a single text from Sherlock all day.

The sound of the violin is audible even before he opens the door to 221, floating down the stairs to reach him while he’s still standing on the pavement. Stepping inside shifts it from being a sound to something more like an assault. Sherlock has the door to the sitting room open; he seems to be repeating the same series of four quick notes, ending in a quick downward glissando. 

Right, then. It’s going to be one of those nights. His sense of unease from earlier in the day feels justified. John runs his hand over his face, steeling himself to climb the stairs and deal with whatever it is that’s set Sherlock off this time.

Mrs Hudson’s door swings open, and she beckons John inside. Her face is pinched; concern, John thinks. Or a headache. As the succession of notes from upstairs repeats yet again, John thinks it’s likely both.

“He’s been at it for hours,” Mrs Hudson half-whispers, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I tried to talk to him, but— you know how he gets.”

John touches his tongue to his lip. He does, indeed. From upstairs, the downward slide breaks with a particularly vicious drag of the bow, ragged as tearing paper. 

Mrs Hudson goes on, half-pleading. “I’m going to get complaints from the neighbours.”

At the moment, John cares less about the neighbours’ concerns than his own eardrums—hell, he thinks, as the sequence repeats yet again; his sanity—but Mrs Hudson’s concerns spur him into taking the stairs two at a time. 

There's sheet music open on the stand, but Sherlock isn't looking at it. He's standing a few feet away from it, angled toward the window to the street; his eyes are closed. He doesn’t look round when John pushes his way in through the sitting room door, but John doesn't miss the way his shoulders hunch slightly beneath the thin fabric of his dressing gown. It means he’s aware John is there, which means he was aware that Mrs Hudson was there, which means he was ignoring her on purpose.

Bloody incorrigible melodramatic _prat_.

Right.

John crosses the room in half a dozen quick strides. Sherlock plays the same four notes again, the muscles of his upper arm and shoulder flexing as he pulls the bow downward with a dramatic flourish. The second it leaves the strings John simply grabs on and wrests it from his grip. 

Sherlock’s eyes snap open; he drops the violin on the seat of the chair and whirls on John, eyes flashing fire, the angles of his face sharp with anger. 

Sherlock makes a growling sound low in his throat and raises his left hand to shove John away. John reacts instinctively, arresting the motion of Sherlock’s arm with an iron grip around the narrow column of Sherlock’s wrist. Whatever John means to do is immediately derailed, however, when John catches sight of the state of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock attempts to jerk his arm free of John's grasp, without success.

John simply stands, transfixed, staring at Sherlock's hands. His _fingers_. Christ.

Sherlock's fingertips are swollen and purple-red in colour, marked by overlapping striations from the strings, dark indents in the normally-pale skin. There's no other word for the way they look but _raw_. 

As John watches, a droplet of blood wells up from a particularly deep laceration across Sherlock's middle finger. 

John is aware, distantly, of the rapid heaving of Sherlock's chest at the edge of his vision, the flutter of the pulse in his wrist, but he doesn't let go. The droplet of blood begins to slid down along the skin toward Sherlock's palm. John is rooted to the spot, transfixed by the glide of the dark red fluid against pale skin; he can practically feel the warmth of it catching in the ridges of his own fingers, taste the thick coppery tang of it on his tongue.

He's seized by the sudden urge to take the tips of those fingers into his mouth, to lick and suck and soothe. Which is _absurd_ , he knows it's absurd, but— well. He's staring, he knows he's staring. He touches his tongue to his lip: once, twice.

When he does manage to drag his eyes away, it is to find that Sherlock is watching his face, pale eyes gleaming above the lines of his cheekbones. The skin of Sherlock's throat is flushed pink down to where it disappears below the neck of his shirt. His free hand comes up to insinuate itself in his curls, tugging lightly. He's still breathing hard through a mouth that's fallen open just enough for John to see the soft movements of his tongue behind his teeth when he speaks.

"I can't." Sherlock's voice is tight with strain, rough-edged. "Calluses get in the way, it's too—" His brow creases into a frown of frustration, but he can't seem to organise his tongue around the words he wants to say, and he doesn't try again. The fight goes out of him like a switch has been flipped, all the tension sliding from his arm as his hand relaxes, still supported by John's hold on it. 

John brings his right hand up and curls his palm lightly against the back of Sherlock's hand, exerting gentle pressure to fold their two hands together into a loose fist. 

John nods, dry-mouthed, agreeing to something neither of them has spoken. He inhales so deeply that his chest aches with it, trying to force his pulse into steadiness. Sherlock's hand is warm, still wrapped in his. John runs his thumb lightly along the inside edge of Sherlock's first knuckle. Sherlock's breath shivers out of his chest, his eyes falling closed. 

Even were he able to voice them, John wouldn't have words for this. Instead, he keeps sliding his thumb just there, back and forth across a small patch of smooth skin stretched thin by the upward press of the bone beneath.

_Here._

"I'll leave it alone," Sherlock says, after what feels like a long time. "For a bit." His voice is oddly breathless.

That's— right. That's what he was after, wasn't it? 

John forces himself to release Sherlock's wrist. The air feels painfully chilled against the palms of John's hands where Sherlock's skin has been. John forces his arms to stay at his sides, hands awkward and heavy with nothing to hold onto, the distance between them just a bit too close for comfort and a great deal too far for what John is discovering he wants.

The long muscles of Sherlock's throat work as he swallows. He turns his hand to examine his fingertips, still reddened and swollen but at least, John notes, no longer bleeding.

"Come on then, John," he says at last. "Grab your laptop. We have a missing quinsensual to find."


	4. Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter contains references to systemic violence which, while not a direct reflection of any current patterns in the real world, could potentially be upsetting.
> 
> I've been asked about doing a sort of DVD commentary for this when it's all done. That sounds like an awful lot of fun, especially as there's quite a bit of backstory for this AU which will never make it into any sort of fic. So, if you have any questions you want answered or think of issues you'd like to see explored, etc, I'd like to encourage you to either leave them in comments here or head over to [my tumblr](thisprettywren.tumblr.com) and drop them in my ask box.

[ ](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/59405.html)

  


The search for Irene's missing quinsensual manages to hold Sherlock's attention for a remarkable length of time, considering that he doesn't seem to be any closer to finding him than he was when he started. Sherlock spends the next several days alternating between scowling at his laptop screen and firing off text messages to his various contacts throughout London. When John eats, he makes enough to put out a plate at Sherlock's elbow or on the floor beside the sofa. Sherlock never does more than hum in acknowledgement, but the food mostly disappears.

John would never have believed that doing the washing-up could feel so much like a victory, but when he plunges his hands into the soapy water, his chest is suffused with the warmth of something like triumph. 

And he'll take his victories where he can get them, he supposes, because whatever it was that passed between them the other night—and John isn't sure he even knows what it was, quite—they certainly aren't talking about it.

The longer Sherlock goes without addressing the issue, the more John comes to fear that he might have misinterpreted the situation altogether. 

John can just see the disdain on Sherlock's face if John were to bring it up: _And what, precisely, would you like to talk about?_ Or, worse: _Do you read so much into it every time someone discloses a piece of personal history? I'd hate to see you with your patients._ Or, worse still: _John, I have no intention of discussing it with you; your wish to do so is just a demonstration of why I habitually avoid such conversations in the first place._

— any of which would be unacceptable, the mere thought of it enough to make John feel slightly queasy and ashen-mouthed. So he will bite his tongue (and isn't that a laugh, he thinks wryly) and say nothing until Sherlock broaches the subject. And if he doesn't, well. John can live with that, can't he?

 _Of course you can, Watson_ , he tells himself, _don't be ridiculous_ , and if the thought settles as a hollow ache at he base of his throat, then he has nothing but his own poor judgment to blame.

  


* * *

  


## String of burglaries baffles New Scotland Yard

Police detectives are warning London residents to take extra precautions following a string of burglaries spread over several London districts. Some suggest the burglaries might be part of a pattern, though representatives from the Metropolitan Police refuse to confirm this claim.

"There are some similarities, sure, but we don't have any evidence of a connection at this time," says Detective Inspector G. Lestrade. "There's also no reason to panic. Use your common sense. Lock your doors and windows. Neighbours, pay attention to one another's houses. Report any suspicious activity, and you'll be fine."

( click for full article )

  


* * *

  


[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7794420096/)

[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7794420414/)

  


* * *

  


To: Sherlock Holmes 09:53  
Any leads?

"No!" Sherlock snarls, slamming the lid of his laptop shut and shoving himself back from the desk. (John's desk, but Sherlock's laptop; John knows well enough when to pick his battles.) He shakes both hands rapidly through his hair as though trying to air out his brain, which is a mental image that probably shouldn't tug the corners of John's mouth up into a smile in quite the way it does. "It's as though he's simply disappeared."

 _Or never existed in the first place_ , John thinks. It's not as though Irene hasn't lied to them before, after all. He wouldn't say it to Sherlock, of course—not now, at least—but John is sure Sherlock can read his thoughts on his face.

He hears Sherlock's harsh intake of breath, but whatever argument he was preparing to make is cut off by the double chime of the doorbell. Lestrade, then; a moment later he lets himself inside without waiting for a response.

"Oh, now you're just being petty," Sherlock mutters abstractedly, irritation temporarily derailed as he turns toward the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.

"What is it this time?" Sherlock asks, voice sharp with impatience, as Lestrade reaches the first floor landing.

Lestrade steps through the open doorway to the sitting room, the sensor pulses from his anklets guiding him unerringly.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson," Lestrade says, the words curled through with amusement. John blinks, taken momentarily aback; it never fails to astonish him that Lestrade always knows John is there, even if he hasn't done a thing to draw attention to himself.

Lestrade angles his body so his full attention is directed at Sherlock. "Don't tell me you haven't been reading the papers."

The corners of Sherlock's eyes twitch into a scowl. "The break-ins?"

"Not just break-ins, anymore. Last night. Either the thief was interrupted or the new scene was staged to look like part of the previous pattern."

"We'll be right behind you," Sherlock says, already moving to gather his coat and gloves.

"Ah, actually, perhaps…." Lestrade's mouth twists in awkward apology. "It might be better if you come to this one on your own, Sherlock."

Sherlock freezes. The thin fabric of his shirt shifts as he draws his shoulderblades down and back. When he turns to face Lestrade, he's clutching his gloves so tightly in his right hand that the knuckles stand white beneath the skin.

"I need John to—"

"Sherlock," Lestrade breaks in, a note of warning in his tone. "It's best if you leave the doctor at home for this one." 

Sherlock turns to meet John's gaze, the expression in his pale eyes dark and unreadable.

"Under pressure from your CO again?"

There's a brief pause before Lestrade answers; when he does, he sounds almost apologetic. "Not this time. But this scene, there's— it's a sensitive issue."

John swallows and nods, once, trying to ease the tension clawing up his shoulders to his neck. Lestrade has always been civil enough to him, but John is only too conscious of the fact that all their interactions occur of necessity through an intermediary; as an anoptic Lestrade has, after all, almost no direct knowledge of John, whose methods of communication all rely on visual contact. John understands all too well that his ability to be taken seriously depends almost entirely on whatever people are able to read in his face, a truth that's held for medicine and military and now, it seems, in his work with Sherlock.

The Yard think he won't be useful, or can't be trusted, or any one of the great number of potential reasons they might be dismissing his input this time. John doesn't blame Lestrade, exactly; if it weren't him now, it would be someone else, soon enough.

This is why so many aphones eventually abandon public life altogether. It's a bitter truth that no amount of employment legislation or public awareness has been able to eradicate: aphones are just far too easily overlooked by the phonic population, even without taking into account factors like unconscious variant bias.

And the hard fact of the matter is that John has no right to demand access to the Met's crime scenes. It will do Sherlock good to get out of the flat and onto a new puzzle, so John swallows down his frustration as best he can, and tries to school his face into neutrality. He thinks he might even nearly manage it.

 _Maybe I'll stay here and work on my blog_ , he thinks bitterly. He's never had any illusions about why his therapist assigned him that particular task. The subtext is obvious enough: that he'd do best to just accept that his place is at home, sequestered behind his computer screen. Telling him to write about the things that happened to him when _nothing_ happened to him was as good as telling him to disappear. John has no doubt that he would have, too, if he hadn't met this impossible genius who dragged him around London on mad chases and didn't care about the rest of it, but if Lestrade's attitude is indicative of things to come….

Well. Best not think about that right now; why fuss about a separation that hasn't happened yet?

"John," Sherlock says sharply. "If you are going to take it personally that Lestrade isn't able to trust you—"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade snaps, just as John is reaching for his TID. 

"Of _course_ he— Christ's sake, John, he doesn't know you're here half the time, you _do_ realise that? Don't be fooled by him greeting you; he does it every time to cover his arse. You don't even— he barely trusts me as it is. I could be telling him anything about you, and he'd have no way of knowing."

There's a long pause before Lestrade clears his throat, the sole of one shoe dragging against the carpet as he shifts awkwardly. "Doctor Watson, I wouldn't—"

John grimaces uncomfortably in Lestrade's direction. His own mortification is like fire beneath his skin. Bloody hell, Sherlock.

Sherlock barks out a bitter laugh, meeting John's eye with a pointed lift of one eyebrow. "See? Lestrade, it's fine, he knows you didn't mean him any offence."

 _No,_ John thinks, directing his most piercing glare in Sherlock's direction, _**he** didn't_.

There's a pause before Lestrade speaks again; when he does, his voice is apologetic. "This case is a bit of a— sensitive issue, Sherlock. Heightened security. It was hard enough getting you clearance."

John takes a deep breath and manages a tight smile in Sherlock's direction, trying to arrange his features into an expression of detached reassurance. _It's fine, I don't mind_. It's a lie, and John can see from the tightening of the skin at the corner of Sherlock's eyes that it's as evident as if he'd spoken it aloud, but the lure of an interesting case is too strong for misplaced gestures of loyalty, so after a moment Sherlock just nods and sweeps out the door, Lestrade following behind him.

John sits frozen, listening to the sound of their footsteps on the stairs, all the way down to the street. His chest is aching with pent-up frustration; it's only after he hears the slam of the front door behind them that he fumbles the TID from his pocket with shaking fingers.

GOD FUCKING DAMN IT

He stares at the words for the space of several hard breaths, his chest heaving. Finally he has to admit that seeing the words on the screen doesn't make him feel any better than hearing them in his head, so he breathes out a sigh, trying not to feel defeated at the futility of the gesture. 

_delete delete delete_

After all, who would he send it to?

The buzz that indicates an incoming message is so startling that he nearly drops the TID.

  
From: Mycroft Holmes 10:05  
Be ready in ten minutes. A car will be arriving to pick you up.

  


* * *

  


Twenty-three minutes later, John is deposited on the kerb in front of an unfamiliar building. There's no sign out front, but Mycroft's driver is watching him expectantly; this is clearly the right place. John shrugs and pushes his way through a set of heavy wooden doors, painted green with brass fixtures, to find himself in a small, well-lit foyer. There's a man sitting at a desk who must have been anticipating his arrival; he greets John with a nod and stands without a word to lead him through a door to a long corridor.

The air is full of rich smells so thick he can taste the flavours on his tongue; it doesn’t take long for John to realise that this must be a gastronasal restaurant, though why it would be unmarked remains a mystery. They pass the open door of a dining room through which John can see groups of late-night diners sharing pipes of strongly-scented vapour, cups of the watery nutrient shakes favoured by most ageusics sitting on the tables in front of them.

They turn a corner and pass through a door into a small room whose only occupant is Mycroft Holmes. The receptionist nods his greetings and departs, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Welcome to the Diogenes, John,” Mycroft says, one corner of his mouth lifting up into a smile. “Do have a seat.”

John perches himself on the chair opposite Mycroft’s, keeping his spine straight. Mycroft watches him coolly, then reaches out a hand to retrieve a small plate of profiteroles—actual profiteroles, not the molecular gastronasal equivalent; what is Mycroft doing with those?—from the sideboard, offering them to John. 

John shakes his head, once, keeping his eyes on Mycroft's face. He might have agreed to this meeting, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten his earlier conversation with Sherlock. As if he didn't already have enough cause to distrust the man.

Mycroft sets the dish back on the sideboard with a small sigh and quirks one eyebrow upward, fixing John with an appraising look. “My brother has gone off on a case without you."

It isn't a question, exactly, so John makes no reply beyond a non-committal gesture. It seems an odd thing for Mycroft to concern himself with, in any case, and John suspects it isn’t why he’s here, but he's long since given up expecting Mycroft to tell him anything until he's good and ready to do so.

Mycroft drops his gaze to his wrist, pulling at the cuff of his shirt until it lies straight against the pale skin.

"He recently received a visit from Irene Adler, in the course of which she requested his assistance. And he… offered it, in a manner that suggests to you that they might have a different sort of connection than— no," Mycroft's eyebrows lift into the expression that John has learned to read as his version of bemusement. "No, he _has_ shared the details, albeit belatedly. How much would he have told you, I wonder?"

Enough, John thinks, flexing his jaw. More than enough.

Mycroft makes a small humming sound in the back of his throat. He doesn't raise his eyes; when he goes on, his voice is cool and impassive. "There's no apparent connection between the two events, so now you're wondering why I'm bringing them both up at once." He lifts his head, narrowing his eyes in John's direction. "In fact, you're uncertain why I brought you here at all."

John could almost laugh at that. He really could.

As though in answer, the corner of Mycroft's mouth twitches up into a smile.

"You're here, John, because my brother's behaviour regarding Miss Adler has raised some questions for you. I cite the case Lestrade brought to his attention this morning because that's where you'll find your answers." There's a pause while he considers. "Though not in the way you're thinking."

And what way, precisely, is that?

It’s unsettling, John thinks; speaking to Mycroft is nothing like speaking to Sherlock. Sherlock’s ability to read John’s thoughts from his facial expressions has always felt comfortable, simply an expedient way of communicating; with Mycroft, John can’t help but feel that his body is giving away secrets that he never meant to be known. Perhaps it has something to do with Mycroft’s tendency to voice both sides of the conversation, leaving John feeling both transparent and superfluous.

Just for a moment Mycroft's face is clouded by something almost like regret. Then the expression is gone, replaced by his customary inscrutability. "How do you think my brother would have fared with a desk job, John?"

What? It's such an abrupt change of topic that John just shakes his head in bewilderment.

"Even before we really understood his— situation," Mycroft says, his lip curling into a sneer as though the word itself has left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, "it was clear that he would have, shall we say, done poorly, had he found himself in the sort of career toward which aceptives were tracked in those days. Then when we identified the hypoalgesia… well. He wouldn't even have been able to get a job in a lab, with that in his file. He still hasn't forgiven me for being the one to recognise the signs. I have no doubt that, had he ended up as a file clerk somewhere, he would have held me personally responsible."

John tries to imagine the Sherlock he knows with the sort of job most aceptives were pushed into: Sherlock Holmes, Operations and Distributions Regional Manager for Boots. Cubicle after cubicle until he was finally promoted to an office with overhead fluorescent lighting and a potted fern. Christ.

The desire to avoid such a fate is something John understands all too well. He managed to circumvent the expected aphonic career tracking—though it was a close thing; the army had almost relegated him to small engine repair in the motor pool, even with his medical background—but only because he'd truly excelled on his exams, then tirelessly proven himself again and again, paying his dues by accepting whatever drudgery the higher-ups threw his way, bringing care and diligence to even the most menial tasks until they had no choice but to admit his qualifications. And from what Sherlock has told him—

"You can see why our father might find it necessary to at least attempt to modify the expression of Sherlock's variant."

John presses his lips together into a thin line.

"He insisted the damage to his sense of taste was of secondary importance," Mycroft continues. "He has nothing but contempt for the _peasant appetites_ "—again, that curled lip as though the words themselves are bitter on his tongue— "though I hardly need mention my wont to disagree on that particular count, and in conjunction with the damage to his hearing— oh, don't tell me you haven't noticed." Mycroft's eyebrows lift in geuine surprise, an expression John can recall having seen on his face only once or twice before.

The pause before Mycroft goes on is slight, but perceptible. "Sherlock did so love his violin, even as a young child. He used to have nearly perfect pitch, you know, but over time it became quite obvious that his upper registers were going. You can imagine what it was to hear the decline, and _know_ oneself to be at least partially responsible. Eventually it got so that I couldn't stand to hear him play, though I never did have the heart to tell him why." His mouth twists in wry amusement. "I'm afraid he still uses it against me."

John's mind conjures the image of Sherlock holding a poisoned pill to his own lips, seen through two panes of glass. Taking a blind leap to help him; yes, John understands about that. He doesn't know what he would have done if his own risk hadn't paid off.

Mycroft's eyes fall closed. "Don't— don't tell him, John. He enjoys it more than he lets on." 

Sherlock deprived of his violin isn't even a matter for consideration, and John agrees without hesitation.

After a moment Mycroft resumes speaking, an air of brusqueness to his tone, as though he's impatient to usher them both out of the moment John just witnessed. "After Mummy's death he began to give indications of his willingness to—" The corners of Mycroft's mouth stretch down in distaste "—attempt to medicate himself via less regulated means. Continuing with our father's experimental treatment seemed the lesser of two evils, though he resented me for it every step of the way and simply refused to continue after a short time. He never did tell me why."

It's very nearly a question, but John thinks he understands enough to keep his knowledge to himself; if Mycroft is concealing information about Sherlock's hearing for his own protection, it seems that Sherlock is returning the favour. 

"So you can see, John, that whatever Irene Adler might have suggested to you about Sherlock's personal history, I can assure you that she's wrong."

John's mouth quirks into a crooked smile; Sherlock said as much himself, in nearly so many words.

"Which, obviously, Sherlock recognises," Mycroft continues impatiently, catching the meaning behind John's look. "But what he fails to recognise is the ways in which she's right about the similarities between them, and that is going to leave him at a distinct disadvantage. No," he goes on with a shake of his head, "he won't accept it from me, even with you as intermediary. I have brought you here merely to— to bring your attention to the specifics of the issue at hand, and shed some light on areas that may prove illuminating upon further examination."

And here begins the customary obfuscation and speaking in circles. Thank goodness, John thinks wryly, I was beginning to think one of them might actually tell me something I need to know.

"As for the connection to Sherlock's current case," Mycroft goes on, "you've been excluded because someone at the yard has underestimated you. And Sherlock— no, Sherlock _didn't_ argue, did he." Again, not a question; John swallows his expression of distaste. "Well, then it seems he has misjudged _himself_. I will make no such error. There's a car waiting for you outside."

Mycroft stands and John follows suit, an instinct born of long military habit. The promise of being involved in Sherlock's case tugs at him; he wastes no time, tipping his chin up to bid Mycroft farewell and moving toward the door.

"John,” Mycroft calls after him. John draws up short and turns to look over his shoulder at Mycroft, still standing beside his chair, looking down to where his fingertips brush against the fine wood grain of the armrest. “Sherlock is—“ Mycroft takes a deep breath. “Be careful with him.”

And John could laugh at that, nearly, because that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? But even downturned and shadowed as it is, there's something in the expression on Mycroft’s face that John can’t quite identify.

 _In every way I can,_ John thinks. _As careful as he’ll let me be._

"I would tell him the same, were he here to hear it." Mycroft’s mouth lifts into a genuine smile for the first time that evening. “Thank you."

It isn't until the heavy weight of the door closes behind him that John realises he never once even tried to take out his TID.

  


* * *

  


When the car stops in front of the university art building, Sally Donovan is waiting for him.

"You're late," she says by way of greeting. "Bit surprised to see you here at all. I thought he made you sit this one out." 

John has no chance to respond before she turns and begins striding toward the open door. He hurries to follow her, ducking under the police tape cordoning off the eastern corridor and winding his way between the uniformed officers and plain-clothes detectives bustling around the scene.

Donovan leads him directly to the end of the hallway, where the bulk of the activity seems to be concentrated. "In here," she says impatiently over her shoulder, pushing open one of the double doors at the far end of the corridor. The moment she does so, John is on alert, his nose prickling with the copper-sharp scent of blood. 

Donovan stands aside and he gives her a tight smile as he passes. The room is large but broken up by rolling partitions. John scans the room quickly, trying to get a read on the situation. The air is still thick with the scent of blood, though its source isn't readily apparent; at first glance, John would have no reason to think anything out of the ordinary might have happened here. Judging by the ring of chairs and the assorted equipment piled beside the sink, the room appears to be used as an instructional art studio. The near wall is covered in a long bank of mirrors that stretch from the floor nearly to the ceiling, while the outside wall is almost entirely taken up by a line of windows facing toward a leafy courtyard, flooding the room with natural light. In contrast to the hectic bustle in the hallway, it's relatively quiet. John takes note of the forensics team grouped in one corner, but Sherlock and Lestrade are nowhere to be seen.

"Are you sure you want to see this?" she asks, not unkindly. John's brow furrows but he nods; what does she think he's here for, if not to see the scene? Her mouth twists in a sympathetic grimace as she leads him past the first partition. "Right over there," she says.

John follows her gesture and sees the bodies immediately. A young man and a young woman, laid out side by side on the floor about midway between the mirrored wall and the windows. Their mouths and eyes are open and staring at the ceiling, and each are covered in a wash of dried blood extending from chin to sternum.

The sight alone is enough to make John's stomach lurch, his nose so full of the heavy scent of the blood that he can taste it on the back of his tongue, chokingly thick.

If there were any doubt in his mind as to what he's seeing, it disappears when he raises his eyes to read the scrawled red letters on the partition: _Aglots_.

John's vision darkens as the blood leaves his head in a hot, sudden rush that prickles down the back of his neck. He doesn't let himself look away, forcing himself to read the letters again.

Paint. John feels slightly faint with the force of his misplaced relief. Just paint, not blood. It's not much, but it's something.

So this is why Sherlock didn't want him to come. He's nearly as outraged by the exclusion as he is by the scene in front of him, though a small, analytical part of his mind is aware of the absurdity of such comparisons. Still, whatever patronising impulse led Sherlock to leave him at home this time is— it's insulting, really. He's a bloody doctor, he's been to _war_ , it's not as though he's unaware of the practise of lingual excision.

 _A nice, neat term for having their fucking tongues cut out,_ he thinks savagely, clenching his hands into fists, trying to ground himself with the bite of his fingernails in his palms.

The truth is, he's struggling to process the sight in front of him. Awareness aside, there hasn't been an anti-aphonic hate crime within the London city limits in at least a decade, and the sight of the empty, gaping mouths of the two young victims pulls at the soles of his feet as though the ground beneath them is no longer entirely stable. 

He's still reeling slightly when he hears the door to the hallway slam open. He hears Sherlock's voice, sharp with impatience: "But if you just look at the glass, just _here_ , you'll see that the striations indicate directional force—"

John turns toward the sound, swallowing down the nausea rising in his throat. Sally takes a step toward him with a hurried, "Come on, Doctor Watson, you can sit over here," just as Lestrade breaks in, cutting Sherlock off. "It's not that I don't believe you, Sherlock, I just need someone to verify—"

John wrenches his shoulder out of Sally's grip as Sherlock comes around the partition, eyes blazing with fury. "What is _he_ doing here?" he snaps at Lestrade over his shoulder, waving one arm wildly in John's direction. When he addresses John, his voice is no less sharp. "John, you shouldn't be here."

John whirls on him, aware that all the pent-up fury and frustration of the last few days is visible on his face, but unable to swallow it down. The image of the two mutilated bodies seems burned on his retinas, flashing across the inside of his eyelids every time he blinks.

For that amount of blood, the victims would have to have been alive when their tongues were removed. _Do you see it, Sherlock?_ John thinks wildly. _Are you able to observe what's right here in front of you?_

Sherlock pulls himself up short mere inches in front of John. The moment stretches between them, as both of them just breathe. John holds his ground; doesn't let himself look away from Sherlock's eyes. 

The harsh lines of fury on Sherlock's face twist into something unreadable, his eyes darkening as they move rapidly over John's face. Sherlock's lips part around a harsh, breathy sound and he takes another half-step closer, closing the gap between them just enough that the moment shatters. John's breath breaks free of his chest, taking with it just enough of the tension in his shoulders that his next inhale comes more easily.

John touches his tongue to his lip; Sherlock's eyes follow the gesture, the muscles jumping in his temple. Sherlock holds up one hand, palm outward, hovering in front of his chest; it hangs there for fractionally too long to be comfortable before Sherlock reaches out to set his hand on John's shoulder.

"I'm sorry." It's nearly a whisper. "John, I— I didn't know."

John brings his right hand up to grasp Sherlock's forearm, feeling the rigid cording of the muscles beneath his palm. _Of course you didn't. Neither did I_. John tightens his grip in a reflexive gesture of comfort that he can't help making, even as he wonders just how Sherlock might perceive it. Some detached part of John's mind is aware that this is more about proving that he's still capable of offering support than it is about Sherlock needing it, but— well, he'll allow himself the indulgence.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth tighten but John's grip stays steady as they hold one another's gaze. John is only too aware of the way his chest is advancing and retreating into the scant few inches of air between them with each ragged breath.

"Get him out of here," Lestrade growls. "I specifically told you, Sherlock, that he was not to come on this one."

Their arms fall away from one another, and there's the briefest hesitation before Sherlock speaks. His upper lip curls into a grimace around words that emerge quick and tight with strain: "He's fine. He can— he stays."

Lestrade lifts one hand in exasperated resignation, then drops it heavily against the top of his leg. "Oh, all right then," he says, "but it's on your head, if he can't—"

"He's _fine_ ," Sherlock bites out, pale eyes locked on John's, and something about the forcefulness of it eases a small measure of the tense ache in John's chest. 

The long muscles of Sherlock's throat work as he swallows, then Sherlock gives a tight nod and takes half a step back, easing out of John's personal space. "Now, if we can get back to the matter at hand." He takes a deep breath and finally breaks the line of John's gaze, turning toward Lestrade and Donovan. "The use of the slur and the staging indicate a propensity toward symbolism rather than function. If the killer merely wanted them dead, he might have employed any number of simpler means; this would have been far messier than required, and necessitated that the killer account for a wide variety of variables, which—“ 

John's hard-won control slips, just for a moment, as the taste of bile rises in his throat. His next exhale gets away from him, audibly rough, and Sherlock’s jaw snaps shut.

 _Required_. John runs a hand over his face. _Variables_. Christ.

There's a pause before Sherlock goes on. "It doesn't even make any _sense_." The words are clipped and rapid-fire as he begins to pace. "In this day and age, even leaving aside the illogical nature of an intent to silence a silent individual, the method is— it's nonsense. Tongues? Why tongues?" Sherlock turns to face John, his expression one of bewilderment mixed with what John suspects may be genuine dismay. "Why not _thumbs_?"

Lestrade barks out "Sherlock!", a reprimand harsh enough to make even John jump. John whirls to see that Donovan is staring at him with a horrified expression on her face. Even Sherlock seems to realise what he's said because he freezes, one hand hovering in the air, caught mid-gesture as he waits for John's reaction.

Illogical. Sherlock has just dismissed centuries of superstition and violence—against people like John; hell, on days he's willing to admit it, against John himself— by simply declaring them invalid. As though pointing out the irrationality of such beliefs will make them disappear, as though he need simply apply a burst of cleansing logic and they'll all be freed of this whole bloody mess.

Bloody hell. Bloody, fucking, actual _hell_.

John can feel the weight of everyone's eyes on him, the anticipation heavy in the air as they await his response.

And he supposes he should give one, he really should; but when he meets Sherlock's gaze, he just can't help it anymore.

He laughs.

  


* * *

  


## The personal blog of Dr. John H. Watson

19 December

### The Six Thatchers

( [read more ](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/19december) )

**5 comments**

— 

Disappointingly simple.

_**theimprobableone** , 19 December_

—

Brilliant! Staging something like this as a distraction from a string of burglaries committed to cover up a smuggling ring. However did you work it all out?

_**Arthur S.** , 19 December _

—

Good to know that you don't let the education system's obvious failure to equip you with primary-school-level literacy stop you from inflicting yourself on the web at large.

(In case you missed it: that process is explained—in exhaustive detail—in the post on which you are commenting.)

_**Sherlock Holmes** , 19 December_

—

Sherlock, be kind.

_**John Watson** , 19 December _

—

Don't tell me you're ignoring me in order to waste your time with something as tedious as this….

_**the_woman** , 20 December_


	5. Smell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a request for a glossary of in-universe terms, so that can be found [here](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/61041.html). Like the variant pamphlets, it could be considered spoilery, though not for plot.

[ ](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/59826.html)

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7767833644/)

  


* * *

  


There comes a night in early March when John startles awake to an unexpected sound in the flat.

He blinks up at the ceiling in the darkness, forcing himself to take deep breaths. It's not as though there aren't unusual sounds in the flat all the time, of course, but Sherlock had gone out shortly after dinner and told John not to expect him back until the following evening. 

John presses himself up to sit at the edge of the bed, setting his bare feet against the night-chilled floorboards, and strains his ears to hear past the sleeping sounds of the house itself. He isn't sure precisely what sound woke him, but he’s awoken often enough to the sense of danger to be able to tell when something just isn't right. It isn't the cool night air that's making the skin of his bare chest shiver into gooseflesh.

And ah, there it is again: a dull thumping, twice in quick succession.

John makes his way downstairs as silently as he can, each footstep a slow, deliberate shift of weight. The hallway light is off, as is the lamp in the sitting room. The door to the sitting room is half-open; through it, John can hear the clink of glass, as though someone is rummaging around at the back of one of the kitchen cabinets. Looking for something.

Every nerve in John's body is screaming at him, on red alert: _intruder._

The kitchen itself is empty, but there’s a thin sliver of light spilling out over the floor from the open door to the bathroom. John grabs Sherlock’s knife from the mantle, rolling his shoulders to ease the remaining sleep-stiffness from them, and begins to inch forward. One step at a time, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet, breathing deliberately through his nose, the hand with the knife poised but loose at his side. He’s visualising the layout of the bathroom. He needs to keep the intruder away from the sink and its profusion of potential weapons; once John gets him on the floor he'll have the advantage, but—

There's a loud clatter as something metallic is dropped against porcelain, followed by a muttered string of curses in a low voice that John knows all too well.

_Bloody hell, Sherlock._

John straightens his spine and drops the knife on the kitchen table as he passes, no longer concerned with keeping his movements quiet.

What the hell is his idiot flatmate doing, sneaking around in the dark and banging into things? John's blood is still singing with the rush of adrenaline. He places his palm flat against the bathroom door and shoves it open, ready to let Sherlock know just how close John had come to jumping out at him. Jesus, he could have—

What he sees inside brings him up short.

Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bath, clumsily attempting to tie a torn piece of bath towel around his right upper arm. As the door slams open, Sherlock's head jerks up, causing him to lose his grip on the end of the towel he had clenched between his teeth. One side of his face is swollen and dark purple-red with developing bruises, and there's a crust of dried blood extending from one nostril partway across his cheek, as though Sherlock had attempted to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

John is at Sherlock's side in an instant, dropping to a crouch against the tile in front of him. His knee bumps up against the edge of his own medical kit, which is lying open on the floor. He grips Sherlock's right forearm with one hand, using the other to lift the blood-soaked towel away from the wound Sherlock was attempting to bandage. There's a tear in the pale flesh that reaches down into the muscle at its deepest point, becoming shallow and ragged as it extends down along his arm.

Sherlock squints at him from an eye that's just beginning to swell closed, his mouth twisting. "It's _fine_ ," he hisses. He flexes his jaw, prodding at a tooth with his tongue before continuing. "It doesn't even hurt."

John's lungs are too devoid of air to manage a laugh. Blood is still flowing freely from the laceration, and John can see a pair of tweezers and a bloody shard of glass lying in the bottom of the tub. No great mystery there.

John cinches the towel tight around Sherlock's upper arm, twisting the extra material to pull the two sides of the wound closed. He holds it there with one hand, gripping Sherlock's left shoulder with the other, tipping his chin up to stare into Sherlock's bruised face.

 _What else_?

He's left his TID upstairs, but the question must be clear enough, because Sherlock just shakes his head and grimaces. 

"A few bruises. Nothing important."

John catches his lower lip between his teeth and scowls, his mind racing with dark possibilities. There's no such thing as _nothing important_ on a man who can't feel pain; what looks like a few bruises could easily be cracked ribs or other internal damage that might go undetected until too late. One of Sherlock's eyes is bloodshot. He's been on the ground; there could be dust in his eye that would scratch at his cornea every time he so much as blinked, the damage building so gradually that Sherlock might not notice anything was wrong until he could no longer see.

 _Jesus_.

John makes Sherlock take over the job of holding onto the twisted towel, then runs both hands over Sherlock's bare torso, checking for pockets of heat that might indicate internal bleeding not yet visible on the surface. Sherlock scoffs but abides John's attentions, holding his spine stiff. Volunteering nothing.

John encounters a series of what are likely only bruises along Sherlock's right side. To John's questioning look, Sherlock just growls in his throat, his eyes sliding away to the far wall.

John has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. _Sure, that's fine; it's not like I need to know what I'm up against,_ John thinks, gripping Sherlock by the shoulder and turning him to get a better view of his back. The skin there is scraped badly enough that it's bleeding in a few places, particularly over the sharp plane of Sherlock's shoulder blade. The abrasions are dark and clotted with dirt.

Sherlock turns his head to watch John over his shoulder, the angle of his chin and jaw thrown into stark relief by the overhead light.

"Gravel," is all he says when John splays his hand against the curve of Sherlock's ribcage.

It's apparent enough, now that Sherlock says it. John eyes him narrowly, considering. Either Sherlock was caught unaware or he had deliberately picked a fight somewhere outside. Not an impromptu fight with a suspect, or he'd be brushing John's hand away in his rush to get back to the hunt. It's possible he antagonised someone in the pursuit of information. Equally possible he'd done it on purpose, because he was bored. 

Sherlock's mouth twists. "By the time I saw it coming, it was… unavoidable. And I did leave my shirt on."

Ah. Unintentional—he might be an idiot but he isn't devious, not with John—but almost certainly unnecessary. The knowledge does nothing to calm the frantic, helpless feeling in John's chest. The reckless idiocy of it is staggering.

Sherlock makes an indignant sound. "It didn't _start_ outside," he says. "And I held my own admirably, thank you."

Well then. That makes it just fine, then, does it?

But there's nothing to be done about it now except clean up the mess, so John forces himself to focus on the task at hand.

The abrasions will have to be cleaned, and John will drag Sherlock into A&E for x-rays first thing in the morning—sooner, if he sees anything that gives him even the slightest concern, and Sherlock better not complain about it, either— to be sure there's nothing ruptured or bleeding internally, but for now it looks like the arm is the only thing requiring immediate attention.

John pries Sherlock's fingers free of the coarse material of the towel, then draws it slowly away from Sherlock's skin, flexing his jaw in irritation when the blood immediately resumes its flow. The wound will need to be stitched, but between the dirt and Sherlock's own sheer bloody-mindedness the risk of infection is high.

John drops back to sit on his heels, rubbing his hand over his face. It’s shaking, just enough.

Sherlock’s voice brings him back to the present. “John.” It’s closer to his ear than John expects; he jerks his head up to see Sherlock's eyes just inches from his own, cast in shadow. “It isn't— it’s nothing." He waves one long-fingered hand as though he can dismiss the whole situation with a gesture. "A miscalculation."

John just quirks one eyebrow upward in response, and Sherlock breathes out a laugh.

"Yes, fair enough," he says, and John can feel the marginal release of tension in the muscles of his neck and shoulders.

He wets a cloth under the tap and cleans the wound, reddish water pooling on the floor of the tub as John works. He finds one small sliver of glass embedded beneath a torn flap of skin. Sherlock watches John's face closely as he works it free—careful, careful—eyes narrowed in concentration.

John's fingers hover over the local anaesthetic. He's suddenly unsure. It's unnecessary, of course, but it still seems somehow wrong not to use it. Most aceptives require anaesthesia for even the most minor injuries, but Sherlock sees his hesitation and says, "Get on with it, don't _fuss_ ," so John leaves it where it is and takes up a needle and surgical thread instead.

John hasn't performed stitches without anaesthesia since Afghanistan, and he's mildly surprised at how the pull of Sherlock's skin—firmer without an injection swelling the area, more elastic—takes him back there. John shifts, for no reason other than to feel the tile against his knees. Not sand, not tarmac. Just tile. There's time, here. He can be careful.

The needle glints as John slides its point into the pale skin. He keeps the stitches as small as he dares; it's not as though Sherlock doesn't have scars already, but John is abruptly very conscious of the fact that what he's doing will leave a mark on Sherlock's body. 

His work, Sherlock's skin; he wants it to be purposeful and clean.

If he were to raise his gaze just a bit he could see the long line of Sherlock's throat, the faint movement of the pulse point there. If he were to look any higher he knows he'd see Sherlock's eyes looking back at him, flinty and sharp. But John just sets his jaw and focuses on the task in front of him, fingertips vibrating with the minute catch of the thread against Sherlock's skin as he moves the needle, watching as the gaping edges of torn skin and muscle draw closer together, the red-dark gap between them growing smaller and smaller until it finally disappears altogether.

John ties the thread off with a neat knot and cuts the needle free, sitting back on his heels. Sherlock twists his arm, examining John's work. The motion pulls at the thin layer of Sherlock's skin, John's hand shoots out immediately to grip Sherlock's elbow, hard enough to arrest the movement.

Sherlock heaves an exasperated sigh but allows John to put a clean bandage over the fresh stitches, and John counts it a victory.

Then comes the careful cleaning of the grit from the abrasions on Sherlock's back, with Sherlock flexed forward at the hips and John crouching awkwardly inside the tub. It's a long, tedious process, but Sherlock keeps himself still and doesn't complain. In fact, he's mostly silent, apparently lost in thought, and John finds himself getting lost in turn, the movement of his hands over the planes of Sherlock's back becoming something almost hypnotic. Thin skin, compact muscle, sharp points of bone; all pale and stark beneath John's blunt fingers.

When he's finally finished John stands, straightening his knees to work through the protestations of his muscles. He extends a hand to help Sherlock up. Sherlock takes it with a sardonic glint in his eye. His hand, in John's, is warm; John is aware of the pressure of each pad of his fingers, little points of heat.

"Thank you," Sherlock says, one corner of his mouth curling into the ghost of a smile. 

John twists his mouth in answer and steps back to run his gaze along Sherlock's torso, taking in the damage from a new angle, assessing their next course of action. The bruises have already started darkening toward purple, but none of them seem to extend beyond the superficial. John's decision is made for him when Sherlock stifles a yawn; A&E can wait until morning. Sherlock will be stiff and sore, but— well, no, he _won't_ , will he? John will have to watch closely to be sure Sherlock doesn't do any damage by unwittingly overworking already strained muscles.

Which— right. One more thing he can't forget. 

John holds up a finger and Sherlock's brow crumples briefly in confusion. John stoops to retrieve a fresh, clean flannel from beneath the sink, then wets it thoroughly under the cold tap. He turns back and reaches up to set the flannel carefully against the reddened skin around Sherlock's eye. Sherlock's head jerks back instinctively; John reflexively reaches up with his right hand to cup the back of Sherlock's head, holding it still while he uses light pressure to clean away the grit before it can get into his eye.

When he's done, there's a small brownish smudge on the corner of the flannel. Sherlock's eyes flare in understanding when John holds it up for him to see.

"I see I owe you my thanks once again, doctor." Sherlock's voice is low, rumbling out of his chest, the sound of it sending something dark and complicated humming through John's veins, curling at the base of his spine. The movement of Sherlock's jaw against John's thumb is what makes him realise that he's still cupping the back of Sherlock's head. He drops his hand away and takes a step back, swallowing hard around nothing.

Sherlock's eyes stay locked on his, head tipped slightly forward so that his hair hangs over his brow to shade his face. Without even really meaning to, John reaches out to brush Sherlock's hair aside, the overhead light throwing the angles of his face into stark relief. His right eye is distorted by a bruise that extends upward from the angle of Sherlock's cheekbone. His fingertips itch with the urge to sooth, to heal, even as he knows he's already done all he can. John sets them lightly against Sherlock's cheek, a light brush of a caress against the purpling skin. 

He forces himself to take a breath, deep enough that his chest aches with it. The force of the oxygen in his lungs is like a living thing, carried outward from his chest by the movement of the blood in his veins, flowing from capillary to capillary all way to the tips of his fingers where they're pressed against Sherlock's cheek. 

John's blood and Sherlock's skin: the combined heat of it is agonising. 

The thought of separating them is unbearable.

Sherlock tips his chin up, his exhale breaking into something audibly rough, and John swallows hard, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. 

Bloody hell, _ice_. Sherlock's cheek is so hot because it's bruising; why didn't he get Sherlock some ice, he should— 

With an effort, John drops his hand away and begins to turn, intending to get a cold compress from the kitchen, but Sherlock's fingers wrap around his wrist in an iron grip, pulling him up short.

"Thank you," Sherlock says again, and John wants to protest— _stop that, stop bloody thanking me as though you owe me anything, as though I wouldn't do anything I can for you_ —but it's a formless sort of objection, already falling from John's mind when Sherlock tugs sharply to pull John close.

Then John is lost in the press of Sherlock's mouth to his, warm and wet and soft, the heat of Sherlock's breath curling into the space inside John's mouth. John's lips soften in response, and he shivers as Sherlock breathes a sigh into his open mouth.

 _Tongue_ , whispers a small, frantic part of John's mind, suddenly flooding with awareness of the places inside Sherlock's mouth that aren't covered by skin. The pulse in John's throat is so insistent he can practically taste it. His mouth on Sherlock's; Sherlock's on his. Does this mean—

Sherlock shivers against John's chest and John could almost laugh with the absurdity of it; with joy, because Sherlock might not be able to feel a great bloody gash in his arm, but this—

— this is—

 _yes_.

John gets one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, fingers tangling in the curls at his nape, as he parts his lips to allow Sherlock's tongue inside. His other hand brushes awkwardly along Sherlock's side, his arm, too unsure of Sherlock's injuries to settle anywhere. Still desperate to touch, fingers shaking with it.

Instead, he sucks Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and Sherlock groans, a harsh sound that breaks against John's teeth. John pulls away for one breathless second; Sherlock tightens his grip on John's arms, dropping his head to press their foreheads together.

"It's fine, John, it's— it's _fine_ ," Sherlock gasps, his breath tickling the sensitive skin over John's upper lip "just— _please_ ," so John settles his hand on Sherlock's hip where the skin is whole and gives himself over to it, pulling Sherlock hard against him, and Sherlock's words shatter into breathlessness.

John grins against Sherlock's lips, slipping his tongue between Sherlock's teeth, losing himself in the heady sensation of their mouths pressed together until he's so dizzy with it that he has to pull away. He drops his head against the hollow of Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in the scent of him as he draws a great, shuddering breath into his lungs.

"Christ, John, your _mouth_ ," Sherlock says, his breath ruffling the hair on the top of John's head. "I can't, I—" 

John stiffens and draws back, just enough so that he can see Sherlock's face. Sherlock's eyes are heavy-lidded but open, half unfocused. When John's gaze meets his, they sharpen abruptly. 

"I can't," Sherlock says again, his voice steadier.

John feels the blood drain from his face. There's an unfamiliar tingling sensation in the back of his neck and the tips of his fingers. He shakes his head once and edges backward. Sherlock's grip on John's arms loosens, then his hands fall away and John takes another step back, too quickly, restoring the air between them.

Sherlock raises his hands, turning his palms inward to frown down at his own fingertips. He’s looking at them as though he’s never seen them before, and John has to force himself to keep breathing against the tightness in his chest.

When Sherlock's gaze slides up to meet John's again his eyes are dark and wide, the expression in them unreadable. His lips part as though he might speak, but close again without a word.

They stare at each other for what feels like an impossibly long time. Then there's a convulsive movement of the muscles as Sherlock swallows. Finally he says, in a voice that seems rough and unfocused around the edges: "Thank you, John, for your— for your help."

Then he turns with a sharp jerk of his shoulders and is gone.

  


* * *

  


John is startled awake by the buzzing of his TID on the bedside table.

  


From: Mycroft Holmes 09:09  
That wasn't very careful of you, John.

John freezes, his heart in his throat. The words bring the memory abruptly to the front of his mind: the warmth of Sherlock's mouth against his, the solid planes of his skin, and finally Sherlock turning away, leaving John alone in the too-bright overhead light, struggling to process what had just gone wrong.

 _Everything,_ John thinks, turning his face to the window and rubbing at the back of his neck. _What if I've ruined everything?_

And now this. He knows all too well that Mycroft has eyes and ears all over London, but not inside the flat, surely? He can't possibly know—

The new message notification flashes across the screen, breaking his train of thought.

From: Mycroft Holmes 09:10  
Late-night brawls in Acton alleyways are so messy.

John breathes a sigh of relief that he knows is misplaced, scrubs a hand over his face, and thumbs out a reply.

  


To: Mycroft Holmes 09:11  
He didn't exactly ask my permission first.

  


From: Mycroft Holmes 09:12  
I don't mean to imply that he did. I go further than mere implication, however, in asserting that he requires stimulation beyond what you're able to provide.

  


From: Mycroft Holmes 09:12  
I refer, of course, to stimulation of the mental variety. To which end I would direct your attention to an intriguing spot on BBC3.

John flexes his jaw and keys in a message, keeping his words as neutral as possible. He hesitates, his thumb over the _send_ button, but John has never been one to avoid confronting his problems head-on.

Might as well find out the extent of the damage so he can begin preparing for the fallout. He steels himself and sends the message before he can lose his nerve.

  


To: Sherlock Holmes 09:14  
Something on BBC3 that might interest you.

Then, because he would have said it on any other morning:

To: Sherlock Holmes 09:14  
Your brother is a bastard.

The reply comes almost immediately. John has to force himself to read it; when he does, the relief is so great he's dizzy with it.

From: Sherlock Holmes 09:15  
I believe I've said as much, yes.

John rolls back against the pillow, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow, trying to steady his breathing.

If Sherlock is willing to continue on as normal, well, John will just take what he can get. He can still hear Sherlock's words in his ear— _I can't_ —and John can respect that. Of course he can. If Sherlock is willing to overlook what happened the night before then John will do the same, and if that means he can't have what he is coming increasingly to understand that he wants, then he'll just have to be satisfied with what they had before.

From: Sherlock Holmes 09:18  
There's tea on if you want to come down and join me.

It will be enough, he tells himself resolutely. It has to be.

  


* * *

  


The documentary on BBC3 is… odd, to say the least. The subject is an anaural man living in Devon who claims to be able to feel sound. "It's ambient," he claims, looking earnestly into the camera. "It makes me sick to my stomach." Sherlock watches with uncharacteristic interest, barely glancing in John's direction when he settles into his armchair.

Sherlock gives no outward sign of the discomfort John had feared, and after a few minutes John finds that the silence between them begins to slip from awkward to companionable. It seems Sherlock, too, is intent on ignoring the previous night in the hope of regaining what they'd had before, and that's— that's fine, isn't it? It has to be fine. 

John tries to force himself to focus on the screen. It isn’t that he finds it uninteresting—quite the contrary, in fact—but his thoughts keep drifting toward Sherlock like a magnet, and when the closing credits roll he is no closer to discovering why Mycroft would have thought it merited Sherlock's attention.

Or, for that matter, why Sherlock himself thought so. John chances a glance at his flatmate. Sherlock's expression is tight against the bones of his face, his mouth a thin line of concentration.

When the opening bars of the next programme's intro music begin to play, Sherlock switches off the telly with a flick of his wrist, then drops the remote and pushes himself to standing with a decisive nod.

“Right. John, pack a bag,” he says. 

Then, with no further explanation, he disappears down the stairs. John is still staring after him when he hears the slam of the door to the street.

  


* * *

  


[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7690847058/)

  


* * *

  


By the time his TID chimes with Sherlock's incoming message, John is feeling more in control of himself. The act of packing was calming, his hands feeling steadier with each item he arranged neatly inside the duffel. 

It felt so good, in fact, that when he was finished with his own things John packed a bag for Sherlock as well, hesitating hardly a moment before pushing open the door to Sherlock's room. 

If he didn't, John reasoned, Sherlock would just end up borrowing John's things, and complain about it besides. He was just being practical.

— a self-congratulatory attitude which thoroughly shatters when he receives the next message from Sherlock.

From: Sherlock Holmes 11:06  
Downstairs. Bring the bags.

Bags. Plural. Sherlock assumed John would pack one for him as well. 

John's mouth twists in rueful self-mockery. _I am such a pushover,_ he thinks, hoisting the two duffels onto his shoulders. _And a thoroughly predictable one at that._

A minute later John is standing on the pavement, watching Sherlock Holmes navigate a Land Rover through the busy midday traffic in central London. Sherlock flashes a bright grin at him as he brings it to a stop at the kerb, ignoring the irate honking of the drivers in the cars behind him.

John thumbs out a message and presses send as he opens the passenger side door.

To: Sherlock Holmes 11:17  
Whose car is this?

Sherlock indicates and glides out into traffic before reading the message.

“Ours, for the time being.”

John grinds his teeth together. He’ll count himself lucky if it doesn’t turn out to be stolen.

Sherlock shoots him a sharp glance. "Problem?"

_Oh, sure. One or two. Let's take not knowing where we're going or how long we'll be gone for a start, and add in the absolute horror that's you trying to drive this behemoth through central bloody London._

He isn't thinking about— about anything else. He just bloody well isn't.

Sherlock looks pointedly at the mobile in his hand. When John doesn't take up his TID, Sherlock takes his left hand off the wheel altogether and flips his phone once in the air. It lands against his palm with a loud _smack_ that coincides neatly with a squeal of tires from behind them.

Right.

Priorities, Watson.

To: Sherlock Holmes 11:21  
Sherlock, stop reading your texts while driving.

Sherlock casts a sideways glance at the mobile clutched in his hand, then breathes out an elaborate sigh.

“Well, if you prefer.” He opens his hand and lets his mobile fall to the floor. It comes to rest against John's foot. Sherlock hums disapprovingly when John makes no move to pick it up, but John just settles into his seat, resigning himself to passing the rest of the ride in silence.

  


* * *

  


John floats back up to the surface of wakefulness when Sherlock switches off the Land Rover’s engine. His head is caught at an awkward angle between the headrest and the glass of the window. He shifts, rubbing at the stiffness in his neck as he blinks his eyes open.

They're parked in front of a house John has never seen before. The place is frankly enormous, set well back from the road on the sort of grand country estate that— 

Wait. Where the hell are they? How long has he been asleep?

"Devon," Sherlock supplies, answering his unasked question. Then, with a sigh: "Obviously there was something in that documentary that my brother thought was worth my attention, but the interviewers _would_ leave out all the most important details. Fortunately I’m not above doing my own legwork.”

John’s mouth twists into a smile and he unfolds from his seat, inhaling deeply as he stretches the kinks out of his spine. His attention is caught by a flicker of motion from up near the first-floor windows, but when he looks directly he can’t identify its source. Most likely just a bird or some other wildlife, disturbed by their arrival.

He looks around more fully, then. Wildlife wouldn’t be out of place; in fact, the whole place may well be abandoned.

That is, it seems abandoned until Sherlock slams his car door, whereupon a flustered-looking young man appears at the front door of the house, leaving it ajar as he hurries out onto the front step.

"Excuse me," he says, "but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to--" He breaks off, looking Sherlock up and down. John closes his own car door, feeling invisible. "Sher— ah, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock slants a quick glance in John's direction. "Sherlock, please," he says. "And you must be Henry."

Of course, as soon as Sherlock says it, John can see it: Henry Knight, the main interviewee from that morning’s documentary. 

Really, Sherlock? Would that have been so hard to tell me?

Sherlock takes a step forward with his right hand extended and Henry clasps his wrist in greeting. The movement of Henry's fingertips against Sherlock's variant marker is perfunctory, mere confirmation of what he already knows.

“Sherlock. But how did you-- this morning, I was going to--" Henry shakes his head, his features contorting into a small grimace as though he can’t quite shape his mouth around the words he wants to say. He runs one hand through his already-rumpled hair, then clasps both hands in front of his chest, fingers twisting together. "I was going to come see you this morning," he says, "but I was-- detained. That is. I— I couldn't. And now here you are,” he says, his voice tight with false cheer.

If John knew Sherlock any less well, he would have missed the way the muscles jump at his temple.

"Yes," Sherlock says smoothly, recovering quickly. "So I've come to you." He gestures at John. "My colleague, Doctor Watson. John.”

"Yes, of course," Henry mutters, narrowing his eyes and extending a hand. The fingers on John's wrist are more insistent than they had been on Sherlock's, pressing hard enough against the subdermal implants that John suppresses a wince.

John is the one who breaks the handshake. Henry takes a small step back, one foot shifting against the gravel as though he can't quite decide in which direction he means to go. “What, ah— your face.” Henry waves a hand in front of his own face, indicating the fresh bruises decorating Sherlock’s skin.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, waving it aside in irritation. Then he takes a deep breath, softening his features by force of will, curling the edge of his lip up into a faint smile. When he goes on, his tone is kind enough that John would almost call it gentle. “There's a matter we'd like to discuss with you. If we could perhaps come in?”

Henry shifts again, eyes flicking from John to Sherlock and back again. "Yes, I suppose that-- yes." He runs a hand over his face. "You'll have to forgive me," he says. "I've been a bit-- well. The truth is, I saw something out on the moor last night that has me… rattled.”

Sherlock shoots John a pointed look.

"Rattled?"

Henry makes a noise in his throat that’s halfway to a laugh, but offers no further explanation. Instead, he turns toward the door, and Sherlock gestures to John to follow as he leads them past an elaborately-furnished sitting room into the house's kitchen. 

"Why were you out on the moor last night?" Sherlock asks, folding himself onto a stool beside the kitchen worktop. John settles beside him, leaning his forearms on the counter to steady himself.

"Maggie ran away," Henry says. "My dog. She— she's always running away, just takes off toward Dewer's Hollow. But she usually comes back by now." 

"You were coming to me because you wanted help finding your _missing dog_?" Sherlock's voice is incredulous.

Henry shrugs and turns his back on them, rummaging in the cabinets. "There's a bit more to it than that, Mr Holmes," he says, "but if you find it amusing, then by all means—"

Sherlock breathes out a quick sigh. The effort with which he swallows his irritation is visible in the tense lines of his neck, though he manages to keep most of it from his face.

"We saw your program today," Sherlock says. "Which is, as you may imagine, why we're here. So we're familiar with the basic tenets of your story, though we'd prefer to hear you tell it without the editing."

John notices the tightening of Henry's shoulders. "Yes. Yes, all right," he says, setting down the sugar canister with a loud thump. "I'm seeing a therapist, you know, to help me deal with-- with everything. She thought it might be a good idea for me to come back here, take some of the-- the _mystery_ out of the place, do you see?

"So last night I went out to the Hollow looking for Maggie, and the sound started. Then I-- I saw something, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, sitting back slightly on the narrow seat of the stool. "Clearly. You witnessed something sufficiently disturbing to keep you awake most of the night. Yet you still roused yourself early this morning with the intent of taking the train to London to consult _me_ , so that's obvious. But nothing so disturbing that you were... unable to be detained." Henry turns his back briefly to retrieve a canister of sugar from a cupboard, and Sherlock's brows draw together in a quick frown of concentration. His eyes dart to John's; he shakes his head, then mouths an elaborate _upstairs_. 

When Henry's eyes are on them again, Sherlock speaks quickly, his face contorting in feigned apology. "I'm sorry, Mr Knight, I'm afraid my colleague might need to make use of your facilities. Do you mind?"

"No, of course not," Henry says, gesturing toward the hallway down which they have just come. "Just there, the second door on the right."

John nods his thanks and pushes himself to standing. Sherlock narrows his eyes in Henry's direction. "Something to do with the death of your parents, of course," he says, sharply enough that Henry visibly flinches, turning his attention back to Sherlock as John makes his way out into the hallway. "Again, so far so obvious, but one would think you would have left such blatant fantasies behind with your youth, so—"

John passes the loo and keeps going until he finds the staircase. It's carpeted but old enough that it will creak if John isn't careful; he squares his shoulders and sets one foot deliberately on the edge of the step nearest the wall, shifting his weight carefully. John didn't miss the small green circle on Henry Knight's wrist that marks him as anaural, but he's also aware that Sherlock mouthed his instructions to John rather than speaking them aloud; if Sherlock thinks the subterfuge is necessary, then John is hardly going to contradict him.

There's a danger in this house, and it doesn't come from Henry Knight.

By the time he makes it upstairs, John is practically vibrating with tension, his chest aching with it all the way from the base of his throat to the lowest part of his ribcage. It's incongruous, being so on alert while staring down a hallway carpeted in what might at one time have been pale pink. John swallows hard, deliberately clenching and unclenching his hands in an attempt to calm his nerves.

Pale pink carpeting; faded, striped wallpaper; the scent of mothballs. All quiet; nothing remotely dangerous-seeming. There must be a dozen doors leading off of the corridor, all closed.

Right. Well, might as well start at the beginning, then; it's not as though he has any idea what he's looking for, in any case.

The first two doors reveal nothing out of the ordinary; the first opens onto a room that's clearly in use as some sort of office, judging by the untidy jumble of books and papers shoved into piles at the edges of the well-worn desk. The second appears to be Henry's bedroom. John wonders just how long he's been here; not long, if the relative lack of personal effects is anything to go by.

He moves back out into the hallway, Sherlock's voice floating up the staircase: "Yes, but in your _precise words_ , as you said them a moment ago."

The third door reveals a bathroom, with one damp towel tossed in a careless heap on the tile beside the tub. John closes it again, sighing to himself. 

_Really, Sherlock, just what am I meant to find up here? A hint would have been nice._

The fourth door is locked, which would be suspicious if the key weren't still sticking out of the old Victorian lock. John turns it as silently as he can and pushes the door open, expecting to find a storage area for disused furniture, perhaps, or old bed linens, or any of the varied assortments of detritus that a house like this might accumulate over generations.

Instead, what he finds is a bedroom very much in use: the bed made up to military precision, a neat pile of folded towels resting atop the bureau and, most startling of all: sitting in an armchair by the window, Godfrey Emsworth.

And that, on its own, would be surprising enough, but what follows is simply staggering.

Godfrey looks up from the book he's reading, opens his mouth and says, in a voice that's rough and strained but undeniably, impossibly vocal: "Captain John Watson. Thought that was you."

Time seems to stop while John's brain wheels through several layers of surprise and impossibility.

Right.

_Right._

John fumbles his TID from his pocket with shaking fingers. Godfrey’s eyes flare wide in alarm, fixating on the TID as his mouth works soundlessly. When he does manage to make a sound it takes several attempts before the syllables resolve themselves into anything resembling words.

“Captain Watson, I don’t have my—“ Godfrey begins, obviously thinking John is intending to send the message to him, but his mouth snaps shut when John waves an impatient hand in his direction.

To: Sherlock Holmes 15:49  
Think I found what you're after.

John tries to school his features into neutrality as he lowers the screen and raises his chin to meet Godfrey’s gaze, but he knows his thoughts must be readable on his face from the heated flush that creeps up Godfrey’s throat.

 _You don't speak_ , he thinks, over and over, the words oddly hollow, robbed of their meaning by repetition.

And Godfrey doesn’t. He _can't_. John served with him in Afghanistan; he wouldn’t mistake something like this. His eyes dart to Godfrey’s wrist, and yes, there’s the small angular mark in red ink that marks him as an aphone.

John runs the ball of his thumb over the identical raised pattern on the inside of his own wrist.

 _You don’t speak._

“I don’t know what happened,” Godfrey says, very quiet. Distantly, John hears a shout from the ground floor, the rapid thud of what must be Sherlock’s footsteps on the stairs. “One minute I was being packed up for transport back to hospital here, and the next I’m—“

The door is already open but Sherlock shoves it aside anyway. It hits the wall with enough force to rattle a picture sitting on top of the bureau. John can hear Henry Knight, not far behind.

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice sharp, not even a little winded, “are you all right?”

John nods, once, and gestures at Godfrey. Sherlock looks from one to the other of them.

“—insist you leave at once, you have _no right_ —“ Henry is saying as he shoves his way into the room, his shoulder slamming hard into Sherlock’s back in an attempt to jostle him aside.

“Mr Knight, _not now_.” Sherlock spits the words out, but the full force of his pale gaze is locked on John’s face, and he doesn’t look round. Even so, the force of it is so startling that Henry gapes at him and retreats half a step.

“John,” Sherlock demands, “tell me what—“

“Let me,” Godfrey rasps. Sherlock wheels on him with a glare that could slice through glass, but Godfrey is not to be dissuaded. "Corporal Godfrey Emsworth," Godfrey says, his voice so rough that John's throat aches in sympathy. But his eyes are bright with self-satisfaction; it may very well be the first time he has has spoken his own name aloud.

“John— Captain Watson and I served together in Afghanistan,” he goes on. He speaks slowly, with deliberate movements of his lips that stretch his mouth wide around the shapes of the vowels, his pitch rising and falling in an exaggerated rhythm. He tips his chin up to meet Sherlock's fury head-on. “And I’m afraid encountering me here today has been a bit of a shock.”

Godfrey raises his left arm, palm upward, a gesture of acquiescence that also reveals the mark on his wrist.

John can actually see the moment of realisation click inside Sherlock’s brain, his eyes flaring wide as he sucks in a quick breath through his nose.

“Irene's missing quins," Sherlock says, as though to himself. His eyes flash up to meet John's, clear and sharp. "Emsworth." Sherlock's eyes flicker back and forth as he struggles to place the name, then settle on John's face again. "From your blog."

Godfrey's brow furrows. "I'm not—" he begins, but breaks off, coughing to clear his throat. "I—"

His words dissolve into more ragged coughing, and John finds himself handing over his TID before he even registers his own intent. Godfrey's fingers close around the plastic casing, his face blanching slightly even as it twists into an expression of mixed relief and something far more complicated.

"Coincidence is the hallmark of an unimaginative mind,” Sherlock mutters. He turns to Henry, one long-fingered hand clutching at his shoulder, forcing Henry to watch his mouth as he speaks. “Which means this is no coincidence at all. Quickly now, explain yourself.”

Godfrey sucks in a breath as though to protest, but falls silent when Sherlock holds up a hand.

“This is— he’s my cousin,” Henry manages, the words rapid and clumsy on his tongue. “I didn’t— you know him?”

John nods, dazed. He feels oddly disconnected from the scene unfolding in front of him, as though his feet on the carpet in fact belong to someone else. The sight of his TID in Godfrey's hands only heightens his sense of distance. He raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, trying to ground himself through the repetitive motion, but he's left with the overwhelming impression that he's not present in any way that counts, that matters to anyone but him.

“Not important,” Sherlock snaps. “Go on.”

“This morning, I was just— just leaving, to see you.” Henry is speaking to Sherlock but still staring at John, as though John might be able to offer him some explanation. “The lights out back came on, and he was, he was _there_. He didn’t seem to recognise me, but of course I knew him, and— when I tried to bring him inside, he opened his mouth and made the most, the most _horrifying_ sound. Even I could tell." He rubs a hand against his breastbone. "I knew he was there even before I saw him, I mean, it was— I could _feel it_.” At that he finally breaks John’s gaze, looking to Sherlock. “And it isn't supposed to be that way, Mr Holmes, he can’t—“

“Except that clearly he can,” Sherlock snaps, cutting him off.

“I know it’s impossible,” Godfrey says, the words without proper breath behind them, blundering clumsily over his tongue. He lifts John's TID as though about to use it, then lets it fall into his lap again, determination deepening the set lines of his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes narrow in exasperation, a gesture so familiar John could nearly laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. “I don’t even know what made me try, I mean, it’s not as though—“ He swallows. “But there it is, I could, and— and yes, I _can_.”

 _He can_ , John thinks. He can, but he's clearly struggling. It's almost painful to watch, and John wants to turn his eyes away, but Godfrey is looking at him now, his expression desperate and lost in a way John has never seen it before.

“So he brought you— no, _locked_ you in here,” Sherlock says. “The key is still in the door,” he says impatiently, anticipating the question from one or the other of them, “Which is hardly the point. But why? Why not consult a doctor, or the authorities?”

Henry makes a small, helpless sound. “I didn’t— I know it’s all just, just superstition, but if you’d seen half the things I’ve seen. I learned to sign for him, you know, and now this, I just— I just needed some time. I was _frightened_ , Mr Holmes.”

 _Superstition. Frightened_. John’s stomach roils, his mind recalling the bloody crime scene with _aglot_ scrawled on the wall, two young aphones with their tongues cut out, the reenactment of a ritual supposedly lost to a bygone era.

But that era is not so bygone after all, is it? Henry’s instinctive fear of his cousin is proof enough of that. Anaural family members are still some of aphones' best advocates, both in political and social circles, familiarity and exposure overcoming the patterns of resentment that developed along with the technology that allowed anaurals to join the phonic world. True, Godfrey had never mentioned Henry to John, but— well, he wouldn't have, would he? John is sure he never spoke about his family during his own enlistment. After all, that sort of thing was never urgent.

If Henry learned to sign for Godfrey—and that happens, John knows, in the case of anaural and aphonic family members; John had often looked on such relationships with envy, thinking of Harry's clumsy aceptive fingers—they must have been close, possibly grown up as playmates. Trusted one another. 

And even so, all it had taken was a moment of variance to shift Godfrey into the realm of something to be feared. And, perhaps worst of all, Godfrey had gone along with it; allowed himself to be locked away like some sort of shameful secret.

The barrier of a tongue that is present but mute, while in actuality insurmountable, has long been viewed as a mere veil between rationality and some dark enigma never meant to be known. For centuries—longer, even—phonic variants had taken the steps they believed necessary to insure their own safety, fortifying the seemingly ephemeral barrier of immovable vocal cords with the ritual mutilation known as lingual extraction. And while it may be true that modern practise has replaced _aglottal_ — with all its weighty connotations and implicit threat— with the more neutral the term _aphonic_ , John has had _aglot_ sneered at him far too many times to believe that the historical subtext is ever entirely absent. 

Cultural memory runs deep, and the belief that aphones exist as perpetual outsiders is no exception. History has interpreted their possession of all five input senses as access to the divine, and in response has alternated idolatry with demonisation, relegating them to the status of mystic: shamans or scapegoats, it hardly matters which. In all cases, the belief in the aphonic power to drive phonic variants mad through the infliction of too much sensory data on a mind unable to process it situates them as outcasts and, thus, vulnerable.

And if John ever needed more proof of his own tenuous position in society, here stands Godfrey, an aphone turned vocal, and Henry’s first reaction to seeing him so was to lock him away.

John can feel his breath coming fast, his skin suddenly too hot and too tight around his bones. 

The pressure of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder comes as a shock. John's eyes dart to Sherlock's face; Sherlock isn't looking back at him but his grip tightens almost imperceptibly against John's skin. John can feel each individual fingertip, five distinct points of warmth. It unlocks enough of the tension in John's chest that he inhales. It's deeper, steadier; better.

Godfrey clears his throat, then grimaces. His eyes fall closed, just for a moment, the muscles of his face pulling downward in an expression of resignation; then he picks up the TID and begins to type. Sherlock's fingers tighten convulsively where they still rest against John's shoulder. 

John's skin prickles with chill. He's cold, everywhere they aren't touching.

When Godfrey finishes, he turns the screen so that Sherlock and John can both read it. 

I was invalided, as you know. Shrapnel to the thigh and lower back, near my spine, but that was removed on base. I wouldn't have thought it would earn me a ticket home, but it did. And that's it. I was sedated for the transport. I don't know how much of what I remember is real, how much might be a dream.

“What is it you remember?” Sherlock asks.

Godfrey shrugs, looking to Henry for confirmation, and begins typing again.

Not much. A few flashes of the flight, the transport helicopter touching down. Hallucinations, nightmares. I dreamt my hands were burned off. Loud sounds. Like that. The first thing I remember clearly is sitting here.

Sherlock makes a scoffing sound, and Godfrey scowls.

Not now, of course. Before you arrived.

"I told you, he just showed up this morning,” Henry says. “He wandered in from—" He gestures vaguely southeast. "—that direction."

Sherlock takes a step away from John, clapping his hands together once. “Right. So he comes to you, from— that _is_ Dewer’s Hollow that way, yes? Where your father was killed years ago?”

Henry opens his mouth, then closes it again, nodding.

"So. We have a missing dog and an aphonic man who appears from nowhere, with no idea how he got here, apparently drugged and suddenly able to speak—"

"And the _sound_ ," Henry breaks in, insistently. 

“Yes,” Sherlock cuts him off, “you mentioned the sound. Don't you worry, Mr Knight; we'll find your missing dog." John can hear the swell of excitement cresting under Sherlock's words, feel the answering spike in his own pulse. "John and I are going to spend the night in Dewer's Hollow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious about what an anaural concert might look like, I'd like to suggest any of Tatiana Plakhova's work as possibilities.
> 
> You can check those out here: [Complexity Graphics](http://www.complexitygraphics.com/) (though the site unfortunately requires flash.)


	6. Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some descriptions of psychological trauma/PTSD that could be triggering.

[ ](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/60033.html)

They end up packing a bloody picnic. 

That is, they end up packing the Sherlock version of a picnic, which consists of two thermoses of coffee and a sleeve of biscuits. (No blanket, of course; such niceties are simply not on his radar.) Sherlock slips them into the pockets of his coat, and John answers his smile with a grin of his own.

"This way," Sherlock says when he sees the expression on John's face, the words curled through with amusement, "we at least won't consider the evening wasted when we don't find anything."

To: Sherlock Holmes 18.12  
You don't expect to find anything?

Sherlock almost frowns at that. "John, Henry is claiming to have encountered some sort of… of _sound_ perceptible to the anaural ear. I think finding his bloody dog is the best we can hope for."

Some of the bottom falls out of John's mirth at that, because it isn't only Henry whose word is at stake here; there's also Godfrey, sitting alone in Henry's house, allowing himself to be locked away, unable to say which of his memories are real and which might be imagined. To whom something has happened that has enabled his frozen vocal cords to pronounce the sounds that have been denied him his whole life; the sounds that never even begin in John's own throat.

John hasn't attempted to speak since he was a young child—what would be the point? Do anoptics attempt to see?—but since encountering Godfrey in that first floor bedroom John has found himself trying to clear his throat, again and again, forcing little bursts of air against his larynx as though it might make a difference. As though he would want it to.

He wonders again what it was like for Godfrey to hear his own voice for the first time. What impulse drove it; what impulses it created.

Oh, hell. Of course he'd want it to.

Sherlock's eyes narrow into sharp points of light. His gaze is so intent that John has to fight the urge to look away. "Well," Sherlock says, "who's to say, there may be something to find after all."

They take the Land Rover, Sherlock navigating it carefully over the uneven terrain of the moor. They give the barbed-wire enclosure that surrounds the military explosive testing ground a wide berth and follow the low fence until they're close enough to see the rocky outcropping that marks the edge of Dewer's Hollow. The sun is just slipping below the horizon when they climb out of the car and settle themselves on the top of a tor overlooking the shallow valley.

They sit in companionable silence, sipping their coffee and passing the sleeve of biscuits back and forth between them. Clouds drift across the darkened sky above them, alternately obscuring and revealing the round face of the moon, casting shadows that shift across the landscape, making it come to life in the evening light. 

A thin layer of fog drifts in to settle across the floor of the valley as the air grows chilled. John suppresses a shiver and steals a sidelong glance at Sherlock's face, but of course he isn't showing any signs of feeling the drop in temperature. John tugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders, huddling down into himself for warmth. 

Sherlock directs his attention to the ground for a minute, gloved fingers plucking idly at the grass, then shifts so that he's pressed up against John's side. The gesture is entirely too casual and precise to be anything but deliberate. John darts a quick glance up at Sherlock's face, but he is once again gazing abstractedly out over the valley, to all appearances entirely oblivious.

All right, then. John allows himself to relax slightly into the warmth of Sherlock's body and lets his thoughts drift.

He has no idea how much time has passed when Sherlock shifts abruptly, pushing himself violently upright. "This is _pointless,_ " he snarls, already striding away into the darkness by the time John scrambles to his feet to follow him.

Sherlock leads them by a circuitous route down the hill toward a mostly-dry creek bed which winds its way toward a bog a few hundred metres ahead. Fog has settled on the ground here, dense enough that John's skin immediately begins to prickle with the chill. The damp air seeping into his jacket and trousers leaves the material clinging unpleasantly to his skin. His ears are ringing, a high-pitched sound that makes the skin on the back of his neck crawl and settles as a restless ache in his joints.

John tries to ignore it as he watches the sharp lines of Sherlock's back and shoulders moving away from him, shifting in and out of the patchy covering of fog; he just grits his teeth and focuses on keeping up.

Seemingly out of nowhere, John's heart begins to race, pounding hard in his ears and the base of his throat. He's seized by a sudden, intense terror that Sherlock is about to leave him behind. Some distant part of him is aware this is unreasonable—Sherlock is only a few paces in front of him, after all—but it's all John can do not to break into an all-out run. 

He quickens his pace, clenching his hands and fighting to control his breathing. He stumbles against an exposed tree root, his right foot coming down hard against the earth, the impact sending a bright spark of pain shooting up his leg. Sherlock pivots to face him, his eyes pools of darkness in the shadows cast by the trees overhead.

"Are you—" Sherlock begins, then cuts himself off with a hiss. "John, _look_." He throws out an arm to indicate something over John's left shoulder. John turns and peers into the shadows, trying to spot whatever has caught Sherlock's attention, but the fog is too dense. Sherlock darts past him with alarming dexterity, ducking between hanging branches as he takes off at full speed along the creekbed.

There's an uncomfortable tingling sensation prickling its way up the back of John's neck, a tightness in his chest and throat. He begins to run, his pulse pounding in his ears; it's too rapid to be explained by the exertion. It's _loud_ , loud enough to drown out the other sounds around him.

John isn't that far behind Sherlock, but he seems to be moving impossibly slowly, as in a dream. He'll never catch up, not like this. The ringing in his ears hasn't stopped; instead it's modulated into something tangible that makes his teeth ache. 

John's foot catches against a half-buried stone and he stumbles to a halt. When he regains his footing he allows himself just a moment's rest, bracing himself with his hands on his thighs as he gasps for breath.

When he lifts his head Sherlock is about seventy metres ahead of him, bent low over something on the ground. John can't see what he's looking at, but then there's a bright pulse of light that illuminates Sherlock's face, no sooner there than gone. After a moment it happens again, just a bright flash, and John is sure he heard a high-pitched sound; a warning, recurring in time with the pulse of light.

 _Oh, Jesus_ , he thinks, his feet starting to run without him consciously willing them to do so. _No._

—because his hearing comes back to him then, all in a rush until his head is full of the sounds of other men shouting, the thud of dirt hitting the tops of transport vehicles. He doesn't know what Sherlock is doing here but that thing at his feet, it's— it's a landmine, an IED. John doesn't know what it is exactly but he can feel the icy terror of it turning his guts to water.

Sherlock is only fifty metres away but there's nothing John can do; he knows it, he _knows it_ with a certainty like a lead weight in his chest, but he's running anyway, moving faster than he would have thought possible a moment ago, spurred on by adrenaline and desperation. A branch catches him across the cheek as he runs, but he doesn't stop. Of course he doesn't. There has to be something he can do, he just has to get there, there just— there has to be.

The pulse flashes again and John sees Sherlock kneeling, reaching down. _Jesus, Sherlock, don't—_

The distance between them is so small—

(two panes of glass)

—so why is it taking so long to cross it? 

The pulse flares again; higher. It's in Sherlock's _hand_. 

John skids to a halt, feet sliding in the soft mud of the ground. Sherlock is just a few feet away. The thing in his hands beeps again, the sound sharp as glass in John's ear, but— Sherlock can't hear it, can he? Maybe it's too high-pitched, Mycroft said he can't— fuck, Sherlock doesn't even know he can't hear it.

Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock, put it down, what are you doing?

Sherlock turns his face to John, his expression one of pure horror, the fog dampening his curls so they cling to his head, the air between them suddenly thick and solid. John can't— he can't _move_ , can't breathe through the tightness in his chest. Sherlock is just staring at him, holding a fucking IED or landmine or— or something, some sort of explosive, in his hand, the light blinking red against the pale skin of his throat, and any minute now it's going to go off and obliterate them both, nothing left for the medics to even find. 

Christ. _Christ_.

Overhead, the clouds shift and the moon breaks through, a sudden slice of light catching Sherlock in its path. In the moonlight his face is ghostly pale, his eyes nearly colourless, so wide John can see white all around the irises. His mouth comes open in a silent O, drawing the skin tight across the planes of his face, his expression a perfect reflection of John's horror.

Around him, around them, John can hear the sounds of the nighttime raid hitting the camp. His squadmates are shouting. There's a loud clatter of rifle fire and someone screams, harsh and so high it's scarcely recognisable as human, but all that fades into the background, subsumed by his terror, his confusion at finding Sherlock here.

_What are you even doing here, Sherlock?_

There's another harsh shout of pain and John knows he's going to be called soon. He's a medic, he has a duty to his squad; he's going to be needed, and Sherlock—Sherlock with his pale eyes and long fingers; Sherlock, whose focus is locked on John's face, who isn't turning away—is a lost cause, as good as dead. Sherlock is holding an explosive in his hand, and the moment he sets it down he's going to trigger the pressure plate and that will be it. That's how it ends, and John with no choice but to stand there and watch his face when— as he— 

Christ, how could he have been so _stupid_?

There's only one logical thing for John to do: turn away, retreat, move back, take cover outside the blast radius. He might survive, if he does that. He might.

He doesn't move.

There's a long, attenuated moment while they stare at each other, time stretching into something tangible between them. John's vision widens, the adrenaline-heightened awareness of battle, and he sees the strange moving shapes of the tall grasses in the bog behind Sherlock. For a moment John is lost; he knows they shouldn't be here— no, _Sherlock_ shouldn't be here, but _where_ —

Then Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, reaching his left hand out toward John, his face crumpling into something almost unrecognisable in the sudden glare of another pulse of light. 

Something shifts inside John's chest and his mind goes abruptly, entirely still.

He doesn't care what he _should_ do, because in that moment he knows what he's going to do, and that's all that matters. Both of them or neither; there's no bloody point, otherwise.

 _Tell me you'll drop it, you mad bastard,_ he thinks, the words oddly calm and savagely quiet— 

(one bullet and the pill slipping through his fingers)

—inside the space of his own mind. _Tell me you'll at least do that_. He can't say them out loud, of course, and anything else seems absurd, but— well, they've never really needed words between them, have they? Not in moments like this.

John forces himself to take a deep breath—deep enough to hurt, the muscles of his torso drawn so tight he can hardly force his ribcage outward against it—and simply launches himself in Sherlock's direction. There's a forced outrush of air from Sherlock's lungs as John catches him in a low tackle, his arms locked around Sherlock's waist, the blade of Sherlock's hip grinding against John's collarbone as John's momentum sends them both flying.

They land awkwardly on the edge of a brackish pool of water. John braces for the explosion, throwing himself against Sherlock's back to pin them both to the ground, burying their faces in the dirt. Even as he does it he knows it won't help, not at this distance, but he does it anyway.

He can feel the small movements of Sherlock's ribcage under his chest, the jerky motions of bone and muscle as Sherlock struggles for breath against the weight of John's body pressing him into the muddy earth. 

_Stay down_ , John commands him in his head, _just fucking stay down,_ and holds them there himself. Holds on.

Gradually, John becomes aware that they're still breathing. One of John's feet is jutting out over the edge of the bank, frigid pond water leaching up the fabric of his trousers, the chill of it almost painful against his overheated skin.

He forces himself to inhale, shifting his weight. Sherlock takes advantage of the movement to shove himself immediately out from beneath John's body so that John rolls sideways, bracing himself with one elbow. But that's not— it's not _safe_ , even if the bomb didn't go off, so John grabs at him, trying to keep Sherlock from making himself a target. _You're too bloody tall,_ he thinks nonsensically, _you have to stay down._

There's a moment of disorientation as they grapple with one another, each fighting for the upper hand, fighting for purchase in the too-soft-too-damp-too-slick mud beneath their sliding knees. 

Then Sherlock grabs John's hair, forcing his head back, his other hand coming up to wrap behind the angle of John's jaw, strong fingers forcing John to face him; not letting him turn away.

They freeze, staring at each other for a too-brief moment until John shudders and overbalances. He topples backward into the pond, pulling Sherlock with him.

The water is icy, enough of a shock to John's system that his eyes snap open. He draws in a sharp breath but it's half liquid; he chokes on it until his body is shaking with the force of his effort to dispel it from his lungs. His feet churn the water beneath him, seeking purchase in ground that he knows must be there, but finding none. The water closes over his head and he flails his arms, trying to bring himself back up to the surface. He drags in a great lungful of air as his head breaks the surface, one hand reaching out to clutch blindly at the slippery bank, fingers tangling in the mud and weeds matted down by their slide into the water.

He can hear, as though from a great distance, Sherlock behind him. He's splashing, gasping out John's name. John turns his head, eyes moving wildly through the darkness in front of him, but all he can see are patches of fog, glowing as though lit from within by the thin beams of moonlight that filter down through the trees.

John's vision is swimming, the fog in his head blending with the thick night air. He claws at the weeds at the pond's edge and manages to tangle his fingers in enough of them to hold himself afloat. He shakes his head, trying to clear it as he scans the water.

The weeds he's hanging onto detach themselves from the soft mud of the bank, tangling around his fingers, his hand. John flails, trying to dislodge them, but slips under, the slimy chill of the water filling his open mouth as he sinks like a stone.

The scrape of his hip against something solid brings him back to the present. He blinks his eyes open to stare blearily down at the offender: a large, flat rock, poking out of the shallow water near the bank of the pond.

The bank. It takes John a moment to understand the significance of what he's seeing; when he does, his first instinct is to move back toward the pond. There's something there he _needs_ , he has to— but his head feels heavy and his limbs are made of lead, the force dragging him sideways as inexorable as gravity.

It isn't until most of his body is out of it that he realises how warm the water had seemed by comparison to the night air on his wet skin; he's shivering, the iron grip around his waist all that allows him to hold himself upright as he's tugged, inch by wretched inch, up onto solid ground.

Beside him, there's a harsh, rasping cough, then a muttered, "Come on, stay with me." Sherlock's voice, _Sherlock_. The relief of it is dizzying; he stumbles, but the steadiness of Sherlock's arm prevents him from falling, and John scrambles to get his feet under him again as he's half-dragged, half-carried away from the water's edge.

In the end, Sherlock manages to manoeuvre them up to the top of a small hill. When they reach the meagre cover of a sparse ring of trees, Sherlock's arm loosens its hold and John sinks to his knees on the damp grass. He blinks his eyes open and stares down at his own hands where they're braced against the ground, fingers spread wide. His skin is deathly pale, nearly translucent in the darkness, framed on all sides by the dark tangle of marsh grass.

John's stomach heaves, his whole body shuddering as he expels what feels like an impossible amount of fetid pond water.

When there's nothing more to bring up, John rolls onto his side, muscles still quivering with the echoes of exertion. The air is clearer here, above the line of the fog gathered in the valley below, and his head feels less leaden with each inhale, his limbs more firmly under his control. He rolls his head to one side to see Sherlock propped up with his back against a tree a few feet away, long legs sprawled across the grass. He has one hand raised to fist in his curls, which are wet enough that there are rivulets of water running down his face, and is staring at John with an almost frightening intensity, as though he's never seen him before.

"Are you all right?" His voice is ragged, rough-edged. John nods, the sodden grass beneath his temple shifting with the movement. He runs the back of his arm across his forehead to wipe the water from his eyes.

"That was—" Sherlock begins, then breaks off with a shake of his head. "You can't swim," he says instead. It isn't a question, which is just as well, because John's body is seized with a fit of shivering so intense that he couldn't work his TID even if he had the wherewithal to dig it out of his pocket. Assuming he even still has it; it might be waterproof, but he wouldn't be at all surprised to discover it's lying at the bottom of the pond. 

Well. He can make do without his TID, for a while at least; what he really should be worried about is whether Sherlock has dropped the keys to the Land Rover. Wouldn't they just be in a pretty mess then?

"You can't even swim," Sherlock says again, quietly. "You _idiot_."

And John might be freezing, might be fighting the overwhelming urge to close his eyes and drift into sleep right here on the muddy ground of the moor, but he knows better than anyone just how dangerous that is. He slides his body sideways and reaches out to rest a hand against the soaked fabric of Sherlock's trouser leg. Though Sherlock must be just as cold as John is, he isn't shivering, his body failing to process the need to keep itself warm.

Right. Of bloody course.

John shoves himself to his feet, unsteady, throwing out a hand to catch himself against the rough bark of a nearby tree, turning his head slowly to try to orientate himself. The Land Rover is— is that way, most likely; he can just see the outline of the hill on which they'd been sitting earlier, far off to their right.

John gives an upward jerk of his chin. _Come on_.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, sliding his gaze from John's face down over his sodden clothing and back up again, then nods in acquiescence and unfolds to standing with a motion that's all sharp knees and elbows. John tucks his half-numb fingers under his arms and turns, ready to set off immediately—they really do need to hurry; they might not be in immediate danger of hypothermia but it's still _bloody cold_ —but Sherlock grabs his shoulders and spins him abruptly around, John's head reeling with the suddenness of the motion.

" _John_ ," Sherlock says, voice sharp. His face is creased in confusion; this close, John can see that his eyes are wide and rimmed with red. Behind him, the dark looming shapes of the trees are outlined against the sky, their shapes spinning slightly.

John is still trying to convince himself that the ground underfoot is not, in fact, undulating when Sherlock hooks the long fingers of his left hand behind the sharp corner of John's jaw, then shoves his thumb between John's lips and forces his mouth open. John brings one hand up to grab at Sherlock's wrist, pushing his arm away as he jerks his head back instinctively. The suddenness of the movement throws him off balance again and Sherlock makes a rough growling sound, releasing his grip on John's jaw to grab again at his shoulders, steadying him.

"Sorry, I thought—" Sherlock shakes his head. "Making sure," he finishes quietly. 

Christ, Sherlock.

John is too cold and tired and sore to keep his grimace from his face. Too cold and tired even to protest properly. Whatever Sherlock was just thinking, John is sure it can wait until they're somewhere inside and dry; until the pounding in his head lets up enough to deal properly with whatever mad notion Sherlock is on about now. 

John turns to move away, but Sherlock stops him with a bitten out, "No, this way." He waves an arm, indicating a route that will take them far clear of the valley. "Let's stick to the high ground where we can."

The phrase _high ground_ restores John's memory of the moments before they went into the water with a jolt so strong he thinks, just for a moment, he's going to be sick again. He'd been sure, _so sure_ they were in Afghanistan, in some sort of nighttime encampment, and that—

Bloody fucking hell, the _bomb_. But Sherlock is here, beside him, as steady and solid as ever, and—

Right.

Sherlock shoves one hand into his coat pocket—the whole thing so laden with water that it drags visibly down on Sherlock's shoulders; John imagines the weight of it pulling him down until he's swallowed up by the loamy earth— then pulls it out again, showing John the mobile balanced on his palm.

"Godfrey's," he says, one long finger tapping the nameplate embedded in the plastic beneath the speaker. The new message indicator blinks, a quick pulse of light that bathes the underside of Sherlock's face in a reddish glow. "We found something useful after all."

John rubs a hand over his face. One of them, he thinks, has lost his mind. 

"Come on," Sherlock says, not unkindly. "You're— it's cold. Let's get somewhere we can warm up a bit, and I'll explain what I can."

John's attention keeps catching on the shifting shadows at the edges of his vision as they pick their way carefully along the uneven ground. He feels wrung out, his nerves wound so tight they might jump right out of his skin. He can tell from the harsh lines of tension in Sherlock's shoulders and the jerky way he keeps turning his head to glance at John from the corners of his eyes that he isn't the only one on edge.

Well then, just another reason to hurry. As though they need one, John thinks, pulling his sodden jacket tight around his shoulders.

Their route to the pond must have been a circuitous one indeed, because it isn't long before they're sliding into the seats of the Land Rover. John's shivers have become shudders, his body nearly outside his control. His hands are shaking so hard he can't get the metal buckle of his seat belt to connect. Sherlock pretends not to notice, for which John is unaccountably grateful.

He's very nearly managed it when Sherlock hisses in a sharp breath, his left hand tightening on the gear shift until the knuckles are palpable outlines beneath the thin leather of his glove. "There, John," he says, nearly a whisper. "Look!"

John curses inwardly as the buckle slips yet again, but raises his eyes to see where Sherlock is indicating.

There, on the top of the hill where they had sat out their earlier vigil, is a shadowed figure outlined against the nighttime sky. A man, perhaps, sitting just where they'd been sitting, playing with something on the ground that glints faintly in the moonlight. John squints, trying to resolve the strange shape into something recognisable.

Sherlock switches on the Land Rover's headlamps, illuminating a wide swath of the moor in front of them. John blinks against the sudden flare of light until his vision clears. 

Then it's all he can do not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

There, caught on the edge of the beam not fifteen metres away, is a dog. It's— it must be Henry's bloody dog.

Maggie has a piece of plastic caught between her teeth; she gives her head a violent shake, dislodging something that falls to the ground. John realises what's happening at the same moment Sherlock does.

"Our biscuits," Sherlock laughs, incredulous. "She's eating our _biscuits_."

Sherlock shoves his door open. Hearing the sound, Maggie drops the plastic wrapper and raises her head, body tense and at the ready, clearly on alert.

Sherlock's hand is on the buckle of his own seat belt. Jesus fucking Christ; the dog is going to run, and Sherlock is going to chase after her. He's going to go _back out there_ , soaked and freezing, to traipse across the moor in the dark, with— with _whatever it was_ that just happened possibly still out there.

John's hand darts out to clamp down on Sherlock's wrist, the soaked leather of Sherlock's glove cold and unpleasant against John's palm. 

Sherlock twists his head to look down at his own wrist in surprise, then up at John's face. The muscles of Sherlock's forearm tense into rigid cords as he prepares to pull away.

John just tightens his grip and shakes his head, once. _Don't even think about it._

There's a note of something like petulance in Sherlock's voice as he protests, "But she's _right there_."

John has a sudden image of Sherlock as he'd seen him earlier that night, crouched low over something John had been so sure was an explosive. Picking it up, the light blinking in his hand, the high-pitched sound of it, a clear warning that Sherlock couldn't even hear—

 _No_. John flexes his jaw against the force of his denial. _There is absolutely no fucking way I'm letting you go out there again._ Sherlock might not be able to feel how cold he is, but if John's own body is anything to go by, it isn't going to be long before Sherlock's muscles become stiff and unsteady, his own body increasingly unreliable. 

A cool breeze gusts in through Sherlock's open door, sending a tremor shivering beneath John's skin. John just keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face and cocks an eyebrow upward, letting his thoughts show on his face. Chasing after Henry's bloody dog is simply _not on_. John is going to get Sherlock somewhere warm and dry if he has to throw him in the bloody boot and drive them back to Henry's himself.

Sherlock lets out a harsh breath through his lips, but John feels some of the tension ebb from the corded muscles of his forearm.

"All right," Sherlock says at last, pulling his door shut with a loud thud. Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Maggie run off down the hill, her dark shape disappearing into the shadow of the valley. 

Perhaps it's the ebb of adrenaline, but John is seized by a sudden wave of something like nausea. His ears are ringing again, faintly. Trapped pond water, perhaps. He drops his grip on Sherlock's wrist and rubs at his ears, trying to clear them, but it doesn't seem to do any good. 

Sherlock turns forward to look out the windscreen and switches on the ignition. "All right," he says again. "We'll go back. We can come find her in the morning."

John nods, easing himself back against the seat. His teeth are aching with the cold. Sherlock slants a sideways glance at him; he doesn't comment, but reaches out a hand to turn the heat on as high as it can go before shifting the car into gear.

  


* * *

  


By the time they pull up in front of Henry's house John's head is already starting to feel better, only to be replaced by a new kind of muzzy-headedness. John is aware, in an abstract way, that it's simply exhaustion starting to set in as warmth and the ebb of adrenaline settle over muscles taxed by recent exertion and chill, but it's infuriating all the same.

Sherlock pulls the Land Rover to a stop in front of the house just as they're engulfed by a sudden, blinding flare of light.

"Flood lights," Sherlock grits out once they've both recovered their breath. 

_You think so, do you? Cheers._ John is sure his glower is dampened by the way he's still obliged to squint against the glare, but Sherlock's low chuckle tells him he's got his message across well enough.

"Yes, fair enough," he says. "Well, Henry will be up now, at least."

As if on cue, Henry Knight appears at the door. "Sorry, sorry," he says, the initial sibilants slipping into a slight lisp. "Alarm system. Can't be too careful around here." He disappears again and the lights flick off, a blessed relief that leaves John with spots dancing in his vision, unable to see a thing.

He jumps when Sherlock sets a hand against the curve of his lumbar spine, the touch muted by the still-sodden material of shirt and jacket. "Let's get inside," Sherlock murmurs, his voice startlingly close to John's ear.

Henry is standing alone in the front hall when they enter.

"What on earth— ah, let me get—"

"We'll keep," Sherlock says shortly. John squints an eye in his direction; he's not sure they will, truth be told. Sherlock's pale skin is practically blue with cold, even if Sherlock himself can't feel it.

John is about to indicate as much, but Sherlock is resolutely avoiding meeting John's eye. John grits his teeth.

"You didn't find Maggie."

Sherlock fixes him with a look of genuine surprise[.](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/61691.html%0A) "What? Oh. Yes, of course we found your dog."

Henry's brows draw together in confusion. "But she… isn't here."

"Evidently not."

Henry opens and shuts his mouth twice before speaking. "Right." 

He turns to John for an explanation, and John just gestures vaguely with a hand, trying to indicate that she'd run off. Damn it all, Sherlock.

"Right," Henry says again, looking from one to the other of them with a bewildered expression. "Did you— did you find anything… else?" 

Sherlock fishes Godfrey's TID out of his pocket and brandishes it triumphantly. "Your cousin's mobile," he says impatiently to Henry's uncomprehending look. "He must have dropped it."

"Oh, yes, I suppose he... yes," Henry says, absently.

Sherlock's eyes flick to John's face, just for a moment. Then he sets down Godfrey's TID and begins pulling off his soaked gloves.

Henry eyes him for a moment, obviously expecting some further explanation; when none is forthcoming, he sighs and turns to move away toward the kitchen. "I'll just— get you something to dry off," he calls over his shoulder, then disappears through the double doors. 

Sherlock's mouth twists into a grimace as he pulls the glove free of his hand with one violent yank, and John sees that his newly-exposed fingernails are blue at the roots. 

Right. This is _absurd_. They need to get warm, they need some dry clothes. The mystery can bloody well wait.

John pulls out his own TID, relieved to discover that he hadn't lost it in the scuffle after all. It's intact, but when he goes to type a message he finds that the battery is dead.

It's very nearly too much to handle. John's hands are shaking with frustration and anger at his own ineffectualness. He shoves his TID violently back into his pocket and snatches Godfrey's from the table. It's probably— hell, it's almost certainly illegal, using someone else's device like this—as urgent as the need to get Sherlock taken care of is, John knows his present situation would hardly be deemed to constitute an "emergency"—but, well. Bollocks to that.

John thumbs open the keyboard and begins to type.

Can't this wait un

From nowhere, his fingers are burning; his hands are on fire, the pain so sudden and sharp he has to struggle to breathe against it.

John is left gaping down at his fingertips as the TID clatters to the floor. 

_Nothing_ , he tells himself, still fighting to control his breathing. _There's nothing there._

"John?" Sherlock's eyes are shadowed with concern. 

John shakes his head, once, and bares his teeth in a grimace. What the hell? 

Sherlock just watches John crouch down to scoop Godfrey's TID off the rug, his socks squelching inside his shoes. 

John turns the device over. The screen is blank. 

Damn it all, his bloody head hurts too much to deal with this right now.

John scrubs a hand over his face and begins again.

Let's ju

This time twin jolts of pain flare up his arms nearly to the shoulder. He flings the device as far away as he can manage, breathing hard. He looks to Sherlock for an explanation, but Sherlock is just staring back at him, open-mouthed.

After a long moment Sherlock goes to retrieve the TID from where it's bounced against the back of Henry's sofa. He turns it over and over in his hands, examining it.

"It shocked you," he says, half to himself. "When you tried to use it." 

Sherlock slides the keyboard open and presses down a few keys experimentally.

"Nothing," he says. "It's— there's nothing. It's not damaged, that I can see."

Sherlock shoves the TID back into John's hand. John grips it gingerly, as though it might come to life and bite him—okay, fine; shock him—at any moment, but of course it's just an inert piece of plastic, lying innocently along his palm.

John glances down at it, then back to Sherlock, uncertain. Sherlock's eyes flare wide in sudden understanding; he snaps his fingers and holds his hand out to take the device back. He still doesn't speak, just begins moving his thumbs over the keys. After a moment he scowls, then reaches out to grab John's hand, pressing John's fingers against the back of the device.

This time, when the shock comes, John is prepared for it, but he still hisses at the pain, jerking his hand back.

"Oh!" Sherlock breathes as the TID falls to the floor. His eyes flick up to meet John's. "It emitted a pulse because I didn't speak," he says. "It must have been modified somehow, some kind of sensor to feel the, the vocal cord vibrations, or—"

Henry returns from the kitchen with two large bath towels draped over his arm and—bless him—two mugs of steaming hot tea in his hands. "Sorry," he says, "it took me a while to find the towels; the girl who comes to do the wash—"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock breaks in, "now do shut up, I need to think."

Henry gives John a puzzled look, but John just shrugs and begins to peel off his sodden jacket, draping it gingerly over the back of one of the chairs. It's probably an antique upholstered in some absurdly expensive silk that will be forever ruined by the damp, but Henry doesn't protest.

"A sound," Sherlock says abruptly, long fingers grabbing Henry by the shoulder and forcibly turning him. "A sound," he says again, "you call it a sound, the—the noise you claim to feel.

"I do feel it," Henry says, indignant. "I _can_ feel it."

"Now?"

Henry shakes his head.

" _Not the point,_ " Sherlock snaps. "What makes this particular sensation different to all the other vibrations you must encounter daily?"

Henry stammers. "It— it isn't, I mean, I don't _know_ , it just—"

Sherlock heaves a sigh of irritation. "You called it a sound, several times. You're anaural; sound is very explicitly not your area. So why? Is it the frequency? The resonance?"

Henry sets his jaw. "I wouldn't know," he says. "It's just how I've always thought of it."

Sherlock turns to face John, still standing with a towel clutched in one hand. He stares for the space of several long breaths, then exhales so gustily his shoulders visibly slump.

"Not your area at all," Sherlock repeats, resigned. "But don't worry. I'm not averse to doing my own field work." 

John tenses; surely Sherlock doesn't mean he intends to go back out on the moor, at this hour? John's skin is practically buzzing, all the blood recalled to his surface capillaries in the relative warmth of Henry's house, and his eyelids are beginning to droop again.

And Sherlock; damn it all, _Sherlock_ , who seems as intent on ignoring John as he is on ignoring his own body. 

John has been very deliberately not allowing himself to think about what he'd seen out in the Hollow, about the absolute blinding panic with which he'd faced the possibility that Sherlock was about to be injured or possibly even killed before his eyes, but as the rush of adrenaline begins to ebb, John finds himself unable to continue to keep those thoughts at bay.

He just— he just wants to get Sherlock warm, and dry, and somewhere the bloody idiot can't do anything dangerous for a few hours so he can finally get some rest. So they can _both_ finally get some rest.

Sherlock's hand comes up to tug lightly at his hair, twice, then he lowers it again to stare at his own fingertips where the water still trapped in his curls has adhered to the skin. He makes a thoughtful, humming sound, low in his throat.

"But first," Sherlock says, raising his head so there's no chance of Henry misunderstanding his words, "I think we both need to get some sleep. I don't suppose you have anywhere we could tuck up for the night?"

  


* * *

  


Henry settles them into one of the spare bedrooms on the western end of the upstairs corridor. It's a strange sort of room, containing a jumble of mismatched furniture that includes a desk, a day bed done up in flowery linen, and a double bed with a tarnished brass frame that was clearly dragged in from elsewhere in the house and shoved in here for storage years ago. 

John wipes a finger idly through the sheen of dust on the bureau while Henry tucks fresh linens onto the mattresses. Sherlock ignores them both in favour of standing at the window, peering out at the darkness and rubbing the gauzy material of the curtain meditatively between his thumb and forefinger.

It's nearly one a.m. when Henry finally departs with a muttered "Good night." Sherlock raises a hand in a languid gesture of dismissal. Henry pulls the door shut behind him and Sherlock immediately begins to strip himself of his still-damp clothing, apparently still lost in thought as his long fingers come up to idly work the buttons on his shirt. And that, right there, is very nearly more than John can take; he flexes his jaw and turns his attention to their bags, retrieving them from their place by the door and depositing them both on the edge of the double bed. He occupies himself for a few minutes by unzipping the bag he'd packed for himself and fishing out his pyjamas.

Sherlock is still undressing, stripping his shirt down his arms to expose the compact musculature of shoulder and back.

The urge to reach out, to touch, is so strong that John has to clench his hands into fists at his sides, hugging his elbows close to his ribcage. He squares his shoulders, forces his gaze back down and breathes—inhale, exhale; better—and zips the bag closed. Then, at a loss, he pulls the zip over again to pull out his toothbrush.

When John turns back to him, Sherlock is standing in front of the open door of the wardrobe, bare to the waist, the expanse of his back so pale it appears nearly translucent, still mottled by bruises and the contusions along the winged angle of his shoulder blade. John touches his tongue to his lip, watching Sherlock's muscles bunch beneath the thin layer of his skin as he reaches out to hang his shirt up to dry. "Bit optimistic, I suppose," Sherlock says without turning around, his voice curled through with amusement, and it takes John longer than it should to realise that he means the likelihood of the shirt being dry by morning.

Well. John prepared for that, didn't he? He heaves Sherlock's bag onto his shoulder, takes two steps around the bed, and tosses it so that it lands at Sherlock's feet with an audible _fwump_.

Sherlock doesn't turn round, but John doesn't miss the slight shake of his shoulders at his stifled chuckle.

 _And well may you laugh_ , John thinks, stifling a yawn. He's still more shaken than he'd like to admit, but knows better than to try to get an explanation out of Sherlock when he isn't in the mood to give it. The ebb of adrenaline has hit him hard, and the desire to understand what happened out on the moor is fading increasingly into the background as exhaustion begins to tug more insistently at his eyelids.

"A warm shower before bed, I suppose." It's not a question, but John nods anyway. The danger of hypothermia is long past but the echoes of chill are still shivering through John's bones, and his skin feels grimy with the residue of mud and pond water. "You can go first, if you like." John raises an eyebrow. "Oh, _fine then_ ," Sherlock sighs, then grabs a towel from the top of the bureau and slips out into the hallway.

The sound of the door closing makes his stomach burn with sudden anxiety, but he swallows hard against it and busies himself with settling in for the night. He fishes the charger from his duffel and plugs in his TID, setting it on top of the bureau to charge.

For a moment, he feels lost, standing in the middle of the unfamiliar room, turning his head from one bed to the other. A jaw-cracking yawn forces its way out of his throat. Christ, he's tired. He stoops down to pull off his shoes, the laces too soaked through with water to bother with the knots for the moment. They'll keep until morning. 

He sits on the edge of the bed to peel off his socks, then leans over to drape them over the radiator to dry. The skin of his feet is still damp and icy to the touch; he rubs his hands briskly over them, trying to encourage the return of circulation.

Sherlock has barely been gone for two minutes when the door slams open again. John blinks at him in surprise. Sherlock's face is twisted into something unreadable; on a different man, John might say he looks as though he's seen a ghost, but— well.

Sherlock watches John as he stands, eyes narrowing as he catalogues the signs of stiffness suffusing John's muscles. His eyes darken with intent, flickering over John's face as though he's hoping to find something there.

John's gaze slides down Sherlock's body. He's naked apart from the towel wrapped around his waist, water sluicing down over his skin to fall in heavy droplets to the floor. There's still mud and grit visible on his calves, more along the side of his neck where his hair is plastered to his skin. He can't have done more than step under the spray; John doubts he gave himself even a perfunctory wash.

"I, ah—" Sherlock begins, then breaks off with a shake of his head that dislodges more droplets of water into the air. "I just thought you might… " he trails off again, his voice strained with tightly-controlled anxiety, while John just frowns at him in confusion. What could Sherlock possibly have to be anxious about, here?

"It's _late_ ," Sherlock manages at last, the words rough-edged with exasperation.

John just shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest. It's not as though Sherlock has ever cared about the lateness of the hour before; by John's reckoning he's already made more than enough concessions for one night. If the only victory he's going to have tonight is getting Sherlock clean before he gets into bed, then so be it, but John's not about to back down now.

 _Back you go, you daft bastard._ He jerks his chin up in a nod, indicating the still-open door. Sherlock regards him through narrowed eyes for the space of several, deliberate breaths, then, with one last sweep of his eyes up and down John's body, breathes out a sigh and spins on his heel to pad back down the hall toward the bathroom.

 _Bloody well right_ , John thinks, allowing himself a small smile as he settles back against the quilt to wait.

Sherlock stays gone for nearly a quarter of an hour. He knocks once on the door before pushing it open. He's back in his towel, still soaking wet, the water streaming down from his hair to course over his shoulders. When he enters the room, he leaves a trail of damp footprints against the peeling paint of the floorboards.

This time his skin—or what's visible of it, at least—is clean, and John knows well enough when to pick his battles. Sherlock doesn't,meet John's gaze; instead, he moves to the wardrobe and crouches down to begin rifling through his bag, still lying where John dropped it earlier. The movement of his arm exposes the long line of his side, and John catches sight of a new, dark patch along the side of his ribcage. 

John's calm shatters as he recalls the force with which he'd driven his own body into Sherlock's in an effort to knock him clear of the explosion he'd been so certain was coming. He can still feel the aftershocks of the impact reverberating through his bones: each throb of his pulse is a painful reminder, an echo of the accusations he sees in each new mark on the pale skin, the blood on John's hands writ in the new bruises blooming on Sherlock's body.

 _Christ_ , John thinks, _how could I have been so foolish? I should have checked him over immediately, I should have insisted—_

His hand is reaching out before he can stop it, his fingertips grazing the shower-warmed skin of Sherlock's side where a fresh bruise is beginning to blossom. One of Sherlock's hands comes up to catch John's wrist in a vice grip, arresting the motion, as Sherlock spins to face him.

"John, it's _fine_ ," Sherlock snaps, drawing back. "Don't."

Sherlock releases his grip and John withdraws his hand, narrowing his eyes. 

They stare at each other for the space of several breaths, then the corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up into a smile.

"Truly, John, I did check. I just— it's fine. Leave it."

John considers making some protest, but there's a note of finality in Sherlock's tone that stops him. 

At a loss for what else to do, John just gives a quick nod and turns away, snatching up the remaining towel and padding out into the hallway, bare feet slapping audibly against the floorboards as he makes his way toward the bathroom.

John peels off his own clothing, leaving it in a messy heap on the bathroom floor, and twists the tap to start the water. The squeal of the ancient pipes is loud enough that he flinches away, the sound uncomfortably reminiscent of the persistent, high-pitched noise he'd heard out in Dewer's Hollow. The back of his neck prickles with a discomfort he can't quite place.

John stands beside the tub and watches the water flow across the floor of the tub to pool against the chrome plating of the drain, the small currents catching the light in a way that's almost hypnotic. He feels dazed, his eyes beginning to glaze over as he waits for the water to warm enough for comfort. 

He's roused by a steady pounding on the bathroom door. He blinks his eyes against air suddenly thick with steam.

As the pounding sinks slowly into his awareness, John begins to suspect that it may have been going on for some time. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. How long has he been standing here?

The pounding stops, replaced by the clatter of the door being rattled in its frame. John can hear the sharp edge of insistence in Sherlock's voice even through the muffling barrier of the door. "John. Are you all right?"

John slams the flat his hand twice against the door in answer. _Yes, fine._ The heated flood of shame that blooms beneath his skin has nothing to do with the heat of the room. 

_Christ, Watson. Get it together._

He shakes his head again and steps hurriedly into the tub, the water now so hot that his skin instantly reddens beneath the spray.

The sensation of being wet is unexpectedly unsettling, threatening to dredge up his earlier terror at the sight of Sherlock bending over something he knew would kill him. (Kill them both. Bloody fucking hell. John can still feel the weight of that decision as a sinking sensation centred around the base of his spine.) He reaches out to brace a hand against the wall for support, the tile smooth and shockingly cool against his palm.

 _It didn't happen_ , he tells himself. _Don't be ridiculous._

John angles his body toward the spray, closing his eyes and tipping his head up so that the water runs over his face, little spots of colour bursting behind his closed eyelids, driving out the images that threaten to overwhelm him. He washes hurriedly, scrubbing a soapy flannel over his skin to cleanse himself of the grime, letting the water course through his hair, trying not to think.

When he can't justify remaining there any longer he reaches out to twist off the tap, moving his wrist with a decisiveness he doesn't feel. He steps out of the tub to dry himself with rough, efficient movements of the towel before stepping into his pyjama bottoms. 

By the time he gets back to the room, he's resolved: he's checking Sherlock over tonight, like it or not.

All the resolve goes out of him, however, when he opens the door to see Sherlock sprawled prone across the double bed, long limbs flung wide beneath the quilt, obviously fast asleep despite the insistent blaze of the lights. His hair is much drier but still wet enough that John can see a damp spot spreading outward along the pillow.

It would be so easy just to let him sleep, John thinks, stifling another yawn, but— no. No; John needs to be sure he's okay.

Still. Sherlock's breathing is audible, sleep-heavy, the rhythmic sound of it steadying the last echoes of anxiety in John's chest. No harm in letting Sherlock sleep for a few minutes, at least. Sherlock must be at least as exhausted as John is himself, and it's so rare that John gets to see him like this. 

_I'll wake him in a minute_ , John tells himself as he hangs his towel from the back of the desk chair. He settles into a corner of the daybed to wait, leaning his back against the wall, keeping his eyes on the steady rise and fall of the quilt as it moves with Sherlock's breath.

  


* * *

  


His ears are full of the sound of gunfire and the whine of projectiles as they hurtle through the air. John blinks against the too-bright glare of the sun until his vision clears enough that he can squint across the sand in front of him. There, just ahead, is Sherlock. Sherlock, on the ground.

There's something John desperately needs to tell him but the TID in his hands feels wrong, and when John looks down it's to see that it's not a TID at all, not even his siren, but a knife. Sherlock's knife, from the mantle of 221b; it looks out of place here among the sand, the blade harsh and gleaming in the desert sunlight.

 _I can't help you with this,_ he thinks, oddly calm.

He tries to fling the knife aside but his arms are too heavy, not his own, and it's only then that John notices the blood coursing down his forearms, flowing from twin wounds in his shoulders. He can't seem to get any air into his chest, and when he looks up again Sherlock is staring back at him with an expression of pure horror. He watches Sherlock's mouth open and—

John jolts to waking with a start, gasping into the air above him. 

Right. He's in Henry's spare bedroom, still half-propped against the wall. He must have fallen asleep. His head aches, dully, but in a way that registers less as pain than as a bone-deep heaviness.

John lets himself slide down to lie on the bed, blinking blearily up at the too-bright overhead light. He brings one arm up to bury his eyes in the crook of his elbow, the darkness a relief so great he wants to shake with it. His lungs are burning with the effort of drawing air in, forcing it out again; his muscles tight and quivering.

 _Christ_.

A dream; just a dream. He can't stop shaking. Bloody hell.

From the double bed, he hears Sherlock cry out in sleep, a harsh rasping sound that John instantly recognises as the noise that must have woken him. John is on his feet before he consciously formulates the intent, stumbling as his vision flares bright against the sudden change in elevation. His pulse is pounding so hard he can hear it.

Sherlock shifts in his sleep, muttering restlessly. John is across the room in an instant. He settles his weight on the mattress and Sherlock shifts again, his breath coming out as a harsh punch of air, just barely below a vocalisation. His face is half-buried in the pillow; what is visible is contorted with strain, harsh lines drawing downward from the corners of his eyes and mouth.

John reaches out a tentative hand to settle it lightly against the back of Sherlock's shoulder, but— no, of course that wouldn't work. A moment of sharp panic flares at the base of John's throat; how the hell is he supposed to—

Right. He raises shaking fingers and snaps, twice, beside Sherlock's ear.

There's a sudden flurry of motion as Sherlock flips himself onto his back. One hand snakes up to clutch at John's wrist, long fingers gripping so tightly John is sure he feels his bones grate against each other.

Sherlock's eyes blink open briefly, then squeeze shut again against the force of the overhead light. John shakes his hand free and stands. It's only a few quick strides until he reaches the light switch. When he switches it off, the darkness that floods the room is oddly disorientating; John knows Sherlock is just there, in the bed, but he seems impossibly far away. He has the odd, mad thought that they might never find each other, be trapped forever just barely out of reach, but then he hears Sherlock shift against the sheets and begins to grope his way over toward the bed, hand over hand along the unfamiliar furniture. It seems like an eternity later that his hands finally alight on the cold brass of the bed frame.

" _John_ ," Sherlock breathes as John settles beside him again, voice sharp with urgency, "Jesus, that was—"

Sherlock breaks off with a small sound of frustration and John finds himself reaching out to run his thumb lightly along the skin of Sherlock's temple, trying to force himself to keep it light enough for Sherlock to feel. He's rewarded by Sherlock turning his head toward the touch, just a fraction.

John discovers, with an odd sense of detachment, that his hand is shaking.

They stay like that for what might be a long time, breathing together into the darkness while the tension slowly ebbs from the lines of Sherlock's body. Sherlock's face is a pale blur in the darkness, even paler than the pillowcase that frames the wild outline of his hair.

John twines his fingers in that hair and keeps running his thumb along the small patch of skin at Sherlock's temple, over and over; an instinctive, soothing gesture.

There's a sharp intake of breath before Sherlock finally breaks the silence. "You too?"

John doesn't ask himself how Sherlock knows. He's long ago given up the expectation of secrets, with Sherlock.

"Was it—" The words come out low and oddly hesitant. "Was it— the same? As what you saw on the moor?"

John nods, and Sherlock's right hand comes up to rest on the back of John's neck, almost mirroring the way John is touching him.

"Oh," Sherlock says, "Because I—" He breaks off, his swallow audible in the sudden quiet. "Mine, as well."

Sherlock's left hand slides across the quilt to find John's right one resting there. John lifts his hand to cover Sherlock's, lacing their fingers together with his palm pressed against the backs of Sherlock's knuckles. He's almost painfully aware of the shape of Sherlock's bones against his palm, slender and fragile beneath the thin barrier of his skin.

John pulls their joined hands toward him and presses Sherlock's palm, first, to the spot on his throat where he can feel his own pulse still pounding beneath the skin; then to his cheek.

John turns his head just enough to presses his lips against Sherlock's palm, a gesture less a kiss than a gesture of acquiescence; an admission that he doesn't know what else to do.

"Come on," Sherlock whispers, tugging lightly at their joined hands but keeping his fingers curled tight. Keeping them from separating. "You can just— you. Here." 

John hears the creak of the frame as Sherlock shifts against the mattress. He allows himself to be pulled down until he's lying beside Sherlock in the double bed, bodies curled together Sherlock's chest pressed to the line of John's back, their joined hands still clasped to John's chest. 

He doesn't know if the unsteadiness he feels is him shaking, or Sherlock. It might just be the pounding of his heart.

"Here," Sherlock says again, less a word than a puff of breath that ruffles the hair at the nape of John's neck, reaching down to pull the quilt up to cover them both. John just exhales in response, the weight and warmth of Sherlock's body at his back easing tension so long-held he'd forgotten what it meant not to carry it. Sherlock's arm on his waist is warm and steady, as warm and steady as the gentle rhythm of Sherlock's heartbeat against his back, helping to draw John down again toward a deep, dreamless sleep.


	7. Speech

[ ](http://thisprettywren.livejournal.com/60337.html)

Sherlock is gone from the bed when John wakes up. He slides his arm across the mattress, the chill of the sheets under his palm telling him that Sherlock has been gone for some time. 

Well. It's not that he's surprised, exactly—he's lived with Sherlock for long enough to know that there isn't a force on the planet that can keep him in bed if there's something else he'd rather be doing—but nonetheless. John presses himself up to sitting and levers his feet out of the bed, rolling his head to work the stiffness out of his neck and shoulders.

It's not disappointment, he tells himself firmly. It's just that he would prefer not to have woken up alone, after the night before.

And that's— oh, hell. There isn't a thing about this situation that fits with any sort of expectation he might have, or might ever have had; he doesn't possess any sort of roadmap for midnight bed-sharing with his mad flatmate.

He makes his way downstairs to find Sherlock folded into an armchair in the sitting room, fingers steepled under his chin, staring off into the middle distance.

"What possible purpose," Sherlock says without redirecting his gaze, "might be served by directing a high-frequency soundwave at an individual physiologically incapable of hearing it?"

 _And a good morning to you, too,_ John thinks wryly. So they aren't going to talk about it then.

Well. Maybe that's for the best.

Johns swallows a yawn and directs his attention to Henry's cupboards. If he's going to be pressed into service as Sherlock's sounding board, at least he could do it with some caffeine in his system.

"What is the point of conducting top-secret studies in a laboratory everyone knows to be top-secret?"

To: Sherlock Holmes 07:10  
Budget?

John hears the buzz of Sherlock's mobile, and then his low chuckle as he reads John's message.

"What has happened to your friend Godfrey seems impossible, but—" If John knew Sherlock any less well, he would have missed the slight hesitation in his voice, "given that we've both witnessed him speaking, it's apparent that such occurrences are merely improbable. But the odds that Irene's missing quinsensual would be someone you know, and that we'd find him _here_ make mere coincidence extremely unlikely."

The kettle clicks off and John pours two mugs of tea, then pads over to settle himself into the armchair opposite the one Sherlock is occupying.

"Such a great number of improbabilities dictates that we discount chance altogether."

Sherlock extends a hand absently to accept the proffered mug, wrapping his fingers around the still-hot body before John has a chance to stop him. He blinks at his own hand for a moment, then sets the mug on the floor beside his chair. His eyes close, just for a moment, then fly open.

"Baskerville."

John shakes his head, not following. 

There's a brief tightening of the muscles in Sherlock's face. "Get dressed," he commands sharply, standing with one fluid motion, already halfway to the door before he calls back, "We're going to pay the British government a call."

  


* * *

  


John discovers, as Sherlock guides the Land Rover past the second round of gates into the base enclosure, that he's less surprised that Sherlock is able to break into a top-secret government laboratory than he is that Sherlock is willing to call his brother in order to do it.

"Mycroft has a lot of fingers in a lot of pies," Sherlock says as they wait for the guard to confirm their identification. "This particular one isn't even that far removed from his capacity as Undersecretary of Public Health."

John takes a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves fluttering in his stomach as he watches the guard leave the small outbuilding and make his way back toward the Land Rover.

The guard returns Sherlock's ID with a curt nod. "On your way, sir."

Sherlock shifts the car into gear, and gives John a sidelong glance. " _Relax_ , John."

John can only manage to hold his glare for a few seconds before it cracks into a smile, holding up one hand to give Sherlock a two-fingered salute.

  


* * *

  


The Baskerville compound is familiar in the way that John supposes he will always find all military bases familiar. Procedure is procedure, at home or abroad; an organisation that runs on its formalities tends to implement them wherever it can.

They make their way to the central laboratory building, located at the back of the compound, where they're given a tour by a young corporal who introduces himself as Lyons. His attitude manages to convey both obligatory compliance and the complete absence of intent to provide any useful information.

"So you do genetic testing here," Sherlock says, his eyes darting around the large, open space. John can see a dozen men and women in lab coats, but apart from Lyons the space seems to be entirely devoid of military presence.

"Well, yes," the soldier says. "Mostly animal, but some human as well." The soldier's eyes narrow. "Which you know, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock covers smoothly. "Just confirming that you'd categorise the work done here in the same manner."

Beyond that room lies another, in which a small cluster of scientists can be seen grouped around a table. Along one wall lies a bank of cages containing what appear to be chimpanzees; the combined shrieking and rattling is enough to set John's teeth on edge. They pass through that room to a double door; Sherlock holds it open for John, taking the opportunity to whisper hurriedly into his ear, "No aphones, did you notice?"

Sherlock's voice is sharp with suspicion, but all John can muster in response is a shrug. He hadn't taken note of the scientists' variant markers as they passed, but John has no reason to doubt Sherlock's claim.

They make their way through another set of double doors and down a long, curving hallway to a second lift. They have to swipe their identification cards before the lift doors will open; once they step inside, John sees that, from the level they're on, the only option is to descend.

"You do have human test subjects here," Sherlock says as the doors slide closed.

"Yes sir," Corporal Lyons answers. 

"We're going to need to see their quarters."

The muscles along the back of Lyons' neck tighten, and John finds himself smiling; it's as good as rolling his eyes, under the circumstances. "That's where we're headed." He presses a button and John's stomach rises into his chest with the rapidity of their descent.

The doors slide open, revealing a blank, white hallway that appears identical to the one they've just left. Sherlock strides forward immediately, not waiting for their guide to lead to the way. They turn a corner onto a corridor lined by evenly-spaced doors, all closed. Each door features an electronic lock and what must be a small observation window, covered by a sliding panel (on the outside of the door, John notes with a feeling of disapprobation). Below the panel is a hook that's probably meant for a chart, though there are none present, and a small plastic sleeve containing a slip of paper bearing the occupant's name.

"Your timing is rather unfortunate," Lyons says as they pass the first door. "They received a round of treatment yesterday, so I'm afraid most are still under timelock."

Sherlock meets John's eye with a quick sideways tilt of his head, then gives voice to the concern John would have liked to raise himself. "You mean, they're locked in."

Lyons' mouth twists. "They're patients, not prisoners," he says, "but it's necessary to maintain a controlled environment, yes."

Sherlock's mouth tightens into a thin line. "Civilians on a military base."

Corporal Lyons shrugs. "That's part of it. Their quarters are equipped with all necessary recreational facilities, of course, and—"

John stops short in front of one of the doors, whose label proclaims its occupant to be "G. Emsworth." His hand darts out to catch Sherlock's arm.

"We'll need to inspect this room," Sherlock says after only a moment's hesitation.

Corporal Lyons' mouth opens and closes once before he nods and swipes his ID in the reader beside the door, then keys in a code. There's a click as the electronic lock disengages, then Sherlock strides in. John touches his tongue to his lip and follows, apprehension making the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

Inside is a small room that looks a bit like a dormitory: a single bed, a bureau, a narrow desk and chair. Sherlock turns in a quick circle, his eyes darting around the room, taking in pressboard furniture and drab institutional colours. John watches as he ducks to glance under the narrow bed, then stands again with a shake of his head as though he's disappointed by what he's seen. His eyes slide up the wall, and John follows his gaze to see a domed shape high in one corner that he recognises instantly as a tamper-proof security camera. There's a door on the far wall, and it takes John a moment to realise what's so strange about it: it has no doorknob.

He shoots Lyons a look. 

"Controlled environment," Lyons says in a carefully even tone.

 _I'm sure,_ John thinks. 

"And what happened to the patient who was in here?"

Their guide raises one shoulder in a small shrug. "I wouldn't know, sir." He turns his head from side to side, looking around in an exaggerated manner. "He's not here."

Sherlock doesn't even dignify that with a reply. Instead, he strides over to the bureau and opens the top drawer, lifting out a pair of what appear to be hospital scrubs, then dropping them back into the drawer with a sound of disgust. He quickly rummages through the remaining drawers - a jumper, a pair of trousers, industrial gym clothes, trainers, dress shoes, a tin of shoe polish, one hideous striped tie, a ratty blazer. Nothing of interest; none of it looks like anything Godfrey would own.

John's chest feels tight. This room is— there's something about it, about the thought of Godfrey here, confined for an unknown expanse of time, subjected to god-knows-what, that makes his throat ache. He makes his way over to the desk and pulls open the single drawer. Inside there's a small notebook and a few pencils. He pulls the notebook out and stares at it, then opens the front cover. There, in that same cramped handwriting John remembers from the medic tent: "Godfrey Emsworth, RAMC."

He closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face. He might not understand what's going on, but he can't shake the feeling of deep unease that has settled in the pit of his stomach.

John looks up just in time to see Sherlock and Lyons stepping out into the corridor. He's just moving to follow them when there's an ear-splitting blast from a siren, and the door to the corridor swings shut in his face.

John throws himself against it, a sudden wave of panic pouring up his spine. The blare of the siren is too loud for him to hear the electronic lock engage, but it must have done, because the door remains resolutely shut. 

No handle on this side, either. Not that it would make a bit of difference, with the base apparently on lockdown.

He's trapped.

Through the door John can hear shouting, the stamp of running feet. He slams his shoulder into the door, over and over, until the pain and futility of it finally forces him to stop. He leans his forehead against it, breathing hard. John might be safe enough in here, but Sherlock had just entered the corridor when the shouting started; he couldn't possibly have got himself to safety in time.

God fucking damn it all.

The siren finally stops, the sudden silence oddly disorientating. The rooms are on lockdown or… or whatever the corporal had called the fucking automated timed lock, but the hallway must have been evacuated, and Sherlock—

His TID. Right.

John straightens up and takes a step back from the door. His hands are shaking as he pulls it from his pocket, but either they're too far underground or the facility has some sort of signal jammer, because there's no reception. He holds it aloft, then just barely restrains himself from throwing it against the wall in a fit of blind anger.

From the other side of the door, John hears shouting and the quick, loud clatter of an automatic weapon being discharged in an enclosed space—

Fuck. _Fuck_.

— then the room goes abruptly, entirely dark.

Silence.

John has to force himself to breathe. His ears are ringing. The air is hot and stifling; has the ventilation system shut down along with the lights? He wipes his forearm across his brow. He's safe in here—unless he suffocates, of course, he thinks wryly—but whatever it is that's got the base on lockdown, Sherlock's out in it.

Sherlock's out in it, and John is trapped in here.

There's a buzzing noise, then a pop as the emergency backup light sputters to life, a single recessed panel that casts an eerie glow over the small room. The air feels too thick to breathe properly, and there's the acrid taste of smoke lingering on the back of John's tongue. 

John's skin feels too tight and much too warm. He rubs at the back of his neck. It doesn't matter that he's safe if Sherlock isn't. The thought steals the air from his lungs. He needs to get out of here— _out_ —but he can't. He's trapped.

Beneath the ringing in his ears, John thinks he can pick up other sounds, shouting and the roar of engines. He whirls, one hand groping automatically for the weapon he always carries, but— no. He shakes his head, firming his jaw, because _no_. That's wrong; he knows that's wrong. He doesn't have a weapon. He clenches his hands into fists and shoves them hard against the sides of his thighs. His mind is playing tricks on him. 

The ringing in his ears becomes a high-pitched drone, sharp enough to make his teeth ache, contrasting with the dull hammering of his pulse.

 _Breathe, Watson_ , he commands himself savagely, but it's impossible. Sherlock knows he's here, must know he's still here, but Sherlock hasn't come back for him. John's mind floods with images of Sherlock injured; Sherlock in danger; Sherlock, out in the Hollow the night before, bending down to pick up the IED. Bloody great idiot, he might be— but no. That didn't actually happen. That was all in John's mind.

 _Breathe_.

There's a click that makes John jump, flattening his back against the wall, then the door on the far wall swings open.

John hesitates only a moment before making his way toward it. He steps through the doorway and drops into a crouch to survey this new place in which he's found himself. It's a large, open space. The emergency lights are no brighter here than they were in Godfrey's room, but he can see what appears to be an indoor track. In its centre are large, hulking shapes that he can't identify in the gloom. The wall at his back is lined with tile, cold to the touch; to his left is a bank of lockers.

Beyond that, the room is empty. He can still hear the sounds of crowded confusion, distantly, but inside this space he is utterly alone.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, then another. A third.

 _Not Afghanistan_. Just a flashback. There's no battlefield here. He's _not in Afghanistan._

 _Get it together, Watson_.

Another breath, deep enough that his chest aches with it. It helps, a little; just enough.

He stands and makes his way toward the lockers, in search of anything he might use to get himself out of this. None of the lockers have locks on them, so he begins to wrench them open, one by one, being deliberately loud in the hopes that the noise will summon someone. Most are empty; a few contain folded towels or lab coats hung from hooks. There's just— there's _nothing_.

John slams one of the doors hard, then opens it to slam it again, over and over until the ache in his head forces him to stop.

He takes two steps backward and shakes his head rapidly, trying to clear his ears of the ringing. The movement makes his vision flare bright and he stumbles until his groping hand finds the wall, using it as support as he slides back down to the floor. He draws his knees up and curls in against himself, palm pressed flat against his ears to try to block out the sounds. His pulse is too loud, too fast, shuddering through his limbs, though his hands are steady.

Breathe. _Breathe._

He doesn't know what instinct it is that compels him to raise his head, but when he finally forces himself to look up, it's to see Sherlock standing on the other side of the track, staring back at him. 

_Sherlock_.

There's a rushing sensation as the blood drains from his face to pool heavy and dizzying against the soles of his feet. He drops his hands away from his ears and presses his palms flat to the cold tile at his back, using the support of the wall to force himself to stand. 

Sherlock shouldn't be here. It isn't safe. 

_Not Afghanistan_ , he tells himself.

No, not Afghanistan at all. He knows exactly where he is. Tile, lockers, and the expression on Sherlock's face— yes.

The pool. The bloody _pool_.

John shifts his shoulder as much as he dares, weighed down as it is beneath the parka and the explosive vest, trying to loosen the muscles that had been wrenched in his struggles as he was being thrown into the back of the waiting car, the stiffness exacerbated by long hours of having his hands bound behind him. His body feels as though it's been repeatedly slammed into something solid and unyielding, but if it comes down to a fight, he's determined to be ready.

Sherlock's gaze doesn't leave John's face. He extends one arm, and John can see that his long fingers are holding a gun. John's own Browning; Christ, Sherlock must have taken it from the locked drawer in his desk. 

A surge of rage flares bright enough to obscure his vision; but— no. _Focus, Watson. First get out of this_. Sherlock's eyes are still locked on his. There's danger all around them but Sherlock obviously doesn't see it, not yet.

John can do nothing but stare back at him, letting Sherlock read whatever might be visible on his face, helpless to do anything but watch the shock and horror and hurt on Sherlock's own.

Sherlock's mouth opens and John watches his lips move, and it's then that John realises he can't hear. His ears are ringing but beyond that there's nothing, a complete absence of sound that he's only experienced a few times before. Psychosomatic hearing loss. Knowing it's all in his head does no more to resolve it than it had when it got him discharged.

And he's— he's there, suddenly, on the sand, distantly aware that it's a memory but still vivid enough that he can almost feel the heat of the desert sand baking the soles of his feet through his boots. It was just a routine transport convoy, but suddenly the lead had gone up in a bright burst of flame, and the truck in which John was riding had rolled onto its side, thrown from the road by the force of the explosion. 

John's ears were still ringing when he'd stumbled out to assess the damage and saw Cornell on his back in the sand with a piece of twisted metal jutting obscenely out of his chest, a few metres from the burning wreck of the truck that must have hit the IED. 

John had run to him without thinking, falling to his knees, the heat of the fire nearly unbearable against his skin, trying to work a hand under Cornell's back to determine whether the shrapnel had pierced all the way through as his left hand sought the emergency siren he had in his pocket. His mind conjures the image with perfect detail: Cornell, on his back, staring up at him from eyes wide with shock, mouth forming words he could neither hear nor answer.

It was just as John's fingertips reached the twisted metal sticking out from the back of Cornell's ribcage into the dirt that the bullet hit.

John couldn't immediately identify the source of the impact that shook his body. It felt, more than anything, like a particularly hard rugby tackle; John thought it was another explosion until he tried to lift his left arm and found he simply couldn't. Looking down, he could see the small rent in the material of his uniform, its edges darkening with what he realised dimly was his own blood.

Cornell's weight was pinning his right arm hard to the earth, and his left was— he couldn't lift it. Couldn't make his fingers work, and he hadn't yet reached his siren. John was pinned, helpless, one arm trapped and the other useless to summon the help Cornell would need to survive.

— but none of that is happening, he tells himself firmly, eyes meeting Sherlock's across the wide expanse of the pool. There's something sickeningly familiar about the whole scenario; John wonders, almost abstractedly, if he's always known he would end up here, the sort of bit player destined to exit the stage in the service of some savage game. He's too hot beneath the parka, his shoulders dragged down by the weight of the semtex vest. His feet are tensed to run against the hard tile but there's nowhere to go, there's—

Wait. _Wait_.

Sherlock doesn't drop the gun but he raises the other arm, fingers outstretched toward John as though the empty air between them means nothing. His features narrow, drawing close around the angles of his face, then abruptly soften into an expression John doesn't recognise. 

It doesn't matter, he tells himself. It doesn't matter.

He watches the soundless movements of Sherlock's lips and thinks, nonsensically, _I've always loved your voice._

(Of course it matters. What Sherlock would choose to say to him, now, when there will be nothing else; of course he wants to know.)

John's skin prickles with awareness of the snipers he knows are present in the upper galleries. They should have known better than to trust Moriarty.

Sherlock raises the hand holding the gun, holding it aloft, both palms up now in a gesture of surrender. No. _No_. Can he possibly be so— so _stupid_ , so careless of his own safety? Can Sherlock possibly think anything he does at this point lets John walk out of here? The best they can hope for—the best either of them can hope for—is that Sherlock gets himself clear.

And that's— well. That's enough, isn't it?

Of course it is. It isn't even a question.

There's an open door to his right that must be— isn't that the changing room where he was held, prior to Sherlock's arrival? Something about it seems off, but John shoves the concern aside. He's already running through his plan in his mind's eye: they won't be expecting him to break into an all-out run, and if he's lucky—if they're both lucky—he'll be able to make it through the doorway before the snipers have a chance to readjust their sights. It won't do much, but it might be enough to contain the force of the explosion; buy Sherlock enough time to get clear.

If John is lucky; if Sherlock is quick about it. If, if, if, and it's all they have.

 _Please God,_ he thinks, _let Sherlock be quick about it._

Either way, John has no intention of making it easy. If the snipers want him, they're going to have to come after him.

John swallows hard, setting his jaw. It's the best he can do without giving himself away but he can tell Sherlock sees it from the way his muscles jump in his temple.

John gives a tight downward nod—yes; you've read this correctly, now _go_ — before running forward and diving through the open door. It won't be enough—not if Sherlock doesn't move, doesn't get himself the hell out of here—but it's all he has. He can't throw himself to the ground, not with the explosive vest—and that's all right, he tells himself; given a choice he'll die on his feet, thanks ever so—but he presses his back to the wall and closes his eyes, completely cut off, forced to trust that Sherlock will do what he needs to do. What John needs him to do.

_Just get the hell out, Sherlock._

John presses the flats of his palms to the cool surface of the wall at his back and braces for the impact. He can feel the heat of the snipers' sights on his skin; it won't matter if he sees it coming. If he's lucky, he won't even feel it. His head feels heavy, his thoughts clouded and hazy. 

What's taking so long?

He coughs, choking on the cloying scent of the smoke filling his lungs. But there's— it didn't— 

His knees buckle beneath him. He doesn't even feel himself hit the ground.

  


* * *

  


Hearing, as always, comes back first.

John struggles to open his eyes against the cotton seeming to fill his skull, squinting up into a light that's searingly bright. His body aches, though his mind struggles to supply a reason this might be so; what the hell—

"It didn't work," he hears Sherlock say, from somewhere to his right. John turns his head to see him leaning against the desk in what he realises, after a moment of disorientation, is Godfrey's room. Sherlock has both palms pressed flat to the chipboard surface, chin tipped up to fix John with a cool stare. 

John holds his gaze for just a moment, then lets his head fall back against the pillow—Godfrey's pillow—and rubs a hand over his face until the prospect of sitting up feels a bit less daunting. He presses himself to a seated position and swings his legs over the side so that he's facing Sherlock. His vision swims slightly and he rubs the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the ache banding down into his shoulders.

 _Sherlock_. Understanding floods his awareness. There was— Moriarty, right? No, that's not— no. It's all jumbled together in his mind with the facility lockdown, loud noises in the corridor. He runs his gaze over Sherlock's body, but he can't see evidence of any injuries. Nothing visible, at least.

John is halfway to his feet before a wave of dizziness forces him to catch himself against the top of the bed. Sherlock, the lockdown, but— he's safe. 

He's here, he's safe. _Thank God._

"Take your time," Sherlock says. There's a note of wry amusement in his voice. "We have just over seven hours before the doors will open again." He waves one long-fingered hand, indicating the electronic lock on the door. "'For the patient's health and safety,' right?"

John swallows down a sudden rush of anxiety at the thought of being trapped here again, but— no. He doesn't mind waiting, not now; Sherlock is here.

"I'm afraid you've missed dinner rounds, though I imagine you aren't too hungry."

John shakes his head, stomach roiling at the mere mention of food. Christ, he really isn't. 

Sherlock watches him appraisingly, then says, after a moment, "It wasn't Afghanistan." It's halfway to a question, and John shakes his head in confusion. He nods in the direction of the bedside table; when John follows his gaze, he sees his TID resting there. "Go ahead. I'll wait." Sherlock's voice sounds… tired, maybe. Resigned.

John just shakes his head again. Sherlock's eyes narrow, but he doesn't look away. "You couldn't hear me." 

John rubs a hand over his face. What he's remembering doesn't make any sense; the confrontation at the pool happened over a year ago.

"What was it?" Sherlock asks, voice sharp with urgency. "If not Afghanistan. What?"

The abrupt change in tone is enough to prompt John to reach over to pick up his TID, his sore muscles protesting the movement. It takes him longer than it should to type out the words. No reception here; he has to turn the screen so Sherlock can read it.

Sherlock bends forward and squints, but doesn't move from his position by the desk.

You're all right?

Sherlock's face creases in a mixture of confusion and what might be irritation. "What? Yes— yes, I'm fine. Of course." He lifts his chin to meet John's gaze; after a moment his eyes soften, his mouth curling in wry amusement. "Stand down, doctor. I was never in any danger."

John shakes his head, not understanding. He feels shaken all the way down to the individual bones of his spine.

"Though do please answer my question."

John has to blink down at his TID for the space of several long seconds before he can even recall what Sherlock's question was.

Pool.

"The pond? You mean… last night?"

John just taps his screen again. A moment later, Sherlock's features lighten in understanding. "But you— on the moor, it was Afghanistan. The sounds we were piping in were designed to— that doesn't make any _sense_."

John's hands are shaking, which is ridiculous. He's having a hard time following what Sherlock is saying.

You weren't in Afghanistan.

Sherlock makes a small sound of irritation, low in his throat. "Well. I thought perhaps the impetus would be fear, but perhaps the conditions weren't… perhaps I didn't stimulate it correctly."

John shakes his head, then raises an eyebrow, because John feels too bloody awful to play this game right now. His thoughts must be visible on his face, because the barest ghost of a smile slides across Sherlock's mouth, no sooner there than gone.

"I— oh, here," he says, reaching over to grab a bottle of water resting on the floor beside the door, then moves quickly across the room to press it into John's hand. The instant John's fingers curl around it, Sherlock steps back, hands flat against the surface of the desk again. 

John blinks at him for a moment, uncertain, but now that he's noticed it the cottony thickness of his tongue is too distracting to ignore. John unscrews the cap and takes a long drink, impossibly soothing against the dry tissue of his mouth and throat.

"Godfrey was frightened," Sherlock says. "Obviously. His uncle had been killed out in the Hollow, as you know, and when he realised he was being pursued, he panicked." Sherlock drops his gaze. "The other night, when we were out there, I saw— I saw things that were, ah. Disconcerting, in the extreme." His eyes dart up to John's face, a brief flash of colour. "As did you. It was obvious from your reaction that what you were seeing related somehow to the battlefield. Logical enough, of course, though it didn't have the expected outcome. I attempted to recreate the conditions in a laboratory setting to see if the treatment would prove effective."

John shakes his head; he still isn't following.

"The fog," Sherlock says, his voice sharp with impatience. There's a pause before he goes on; John watches a shadow cross his face as Sherlock struggles to swallow his irritation. "There was something in the fog that restored Godfrey's speech. It's being developed here, and vented out onto the moor at night. The fact that it also happens to be a hallucinogen is— inconvenient. Though perhaps also fortuitous, considering that it would no doubt take quite a jolt to the system to prompt an aphone to even _attempt_ speech."

John has to set the bottle of water down before he drops it.

"While you were out, I did a bit of— I obtained some information that had been previously withheld from us." The quirk of Sherlock's lip tells John all he needs to know about the likely legality of the means by which this information was obtained. "It seems that, in some small percentage of cases, individuals presenting as aphonic variants are in fact quins. There's a genetic susceptibility to a particular type of fungal infection that coats the vocal cords, effectively paralysing them. Inhalation of particular substances has been recently proven to clear it, at least for a limited amount of time. The variants are breaking down. The split between ageusia and anosmia is relatively recent, from an evolutionary point of view, and Mycroft is convinced that if that can change, then other changes might be possible as well." Sherlock's face twists. "I had hoped… I'm afraid you aren't one of those cases, John. I'm sorry."

John just gapes at him. If he's understanding correctly, what Sherlock is apologising for— no. Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock, that isn't even on the radar of problems with this scenario.

If he were feeling any steadier on his feet, John would— Christ, he doesn't even know what he'd do. Throttle him, maybe. 

But Sherlock is just staring back at him, his face oddly open. Might as well expect the wind to feel ashamed for blowing as expect Sherlock Holmes to behave in any manner that might be considered _normal_ , but this is not okay. It's not okay, and Sherlock needs to understand that.

You experimented on me. Without my permission.

"I didn't want to skew any potential results. John, if I could have— if you could." Sherlock presses his lips together. "Truly, I am sorry."

His vision flares bright with fury, just for a moment. Even after it clears, It takes John a moment to work out just what it is he wants to say, his fingers shaking with the force of it as he keys in the letters.

Without my permission, Sherlock. After what you told me about your family.

Sherlock stares at his screen for a long time, then looks up at John, his face twisted in a mixture of frustration and something else John can't quite identify.

"Is that— is _that_ what you took from that? John, this _is_ my family." He waves his hand to indicate the small room. "This is Mycroft's pet project. And if you think for a second— if you're referring to my father's research, I _chose_ to participate in that. Don't think for a second that I wouldn't have done anything to—" Sherlock pauses, chest heaving, then spits out: "There is _data_ that I _cannot access_ , John. Do you see? And you could— if I could give you—"

Sherlock breaks off, then turns and hurls his small notebook across the room with a shout of frustration. It hits the wall and falls to the floor, pages fluttering. John watches the rapid rise and fall of Sherlock's shoulders as he struggles to regain his composure.

"You'll be fine," Sherlock says at last, the words tight with strain. "No lasting effects." There's a pause, then Sherlock slams his hand down hard against the surface of the desk. "Because I failed to anticipate all the variables." 

To John's confused look, he snarls, "My presence must have prevented you from reaching the necessary state of heightened adrenal response, and evidence suggests that the subject must be unaware to— _what_?" He pins John with a glare, his eyes flashing fire. "What have I got wrong now?"

John's thumbs hesitate over the keys, unsure precisely how he wants to phrase what he needs to say next. He can feel the heat of Sherlock's gaze watching him as he types out several messages in turn. 

You think you can't frighten me? The thought of something happening to you frightens me more than

_delete, delete, delete_

In Afghanistan I would never have been alone, but now

_delete, delete, delete_

I saw your face that day at the pool, don't think I don't know

_delete, delete, delete_

Do you have any idea what it would do to me if

_delete delete delete_

You're an idiot. Everything about you scares me.

There.

John turns the screen around and watches Sherlock's eyes flicker back and forth as he reads, then rereads, John's message.

When he raises his gaze to meet John's his face is perfectly, deliberately blank.

Come here.

Sherlock eyes him warily, but crosses the floor to stand awkwardly by the side of the bed.

"It wouldn't have driven you mad," Sherlock says, "if that's what you were afraid of. Being able to speak, I mean."

It isn't, at all.

 _I know_.

"If Godfrey could handle it, I knew you would have no trouble. I suppose I'd never really thought about it, before. Your mind is far from average, and if an average mind like yours is capable of processing all five input senses—oh, don't look at me like that, you know precisely what I mean—then… well. I'd never really considered what I was missing. Data, yes, and how it applies to my work, but." The long muscles of his throat work as he swallows. "But… beyond that, I'd given it very little thought."

Coming from Sherlock, it's very nearly an apology. John gives him a small, tight smile, and waits.

Sherlock turns his hand palm-up and smiles wryly down at the mark on the inside of his own wrist. "It would, perhaps, sit easier if this mark belonged here."

John shakes his head, and Sherlock breathes out a quick laugh.

"No, I suppose you're right. But to be so close, to be truly aware of just what it is I'm missing." His eyes dart up to meet John's, lightning-quick, then drop down again. "Things might be different. I thought, perhaps, for you…."

He trails off, his expression oddly lost. It takes John several long minutes to decide what he wants to say in response.

Sometimes it's best to work with things as they are.

"John, I'm not blind." Sherlock's voice is hard-edged with frustration. "Don't try to tell me you wouldn't choose something else if you could."

John touches his tongue to his lip and considers it. He thinks about watching Cornell bleed out in his arms; he thinks about his helpless fury watching Sherlock hold the damn pill up to his lips, the first night they met; of Sherlock staring at him from across an empty swimming pool, an arm's length from a bomb and pretending not to understand when John's eyes are begging him to run. Those events might have played out in precisely the same way had John been anosmic, or anaural, or any other variant.

Then he thinks about Sherlock at a crime scene, just a random, run-of-the-mill case they'd been called out on last January. He thinks about the gleam in Sherlock's eye, the excitement in his voice, as he'd reached out and grabbed John's arm, practically dragging him to the ground to _get a closer look, John, do you see—_. The way Sherlock had grinned at him through the cloud of his own breath in the cold air, the grit of the alleyway pressing into John's knees as he bent down willingly, _joyfully_ , glad to be there in the dirt and chaos of that scene because that was where Sherlock was at his most fulfilled.

And there isn't any aspect of that which John would trade—any small observation, any detail—for a different variant. Even to be a bloody quins; Sherlock might be the observational genius, but John is no slouch himself, but there's never been any doubt in his mind that this is a skill born of the necessity, of constantly holding back until there's something that needs to be said.

There's so much, so much that he could so easily have missed.

No. He wouldn't choose differently, even if the choice were his to make.

Sherlock is still staring down at his left hand. John reaches out to take it, wrapping his fingers around the narrow column of Sherlock's wrist, his palm over the blue ink of Sherlock's variant marker. 

It's the first time they've touched since the previous night, and it's only with an effort that John doesn't just pull Sherlock to him, seeking the reassurance to be found in the warmth of solid limbs. Instead, he contents himself with drawing Sherlock's hand into his lap, enclosed between both of John's. Even knowing now that Sherlock was never in any danger does little to alleviate the flood of relief that thrums beneath John's skin at the contact between Sherlock's hand—tendon and muscle and bone, blood and skin, warm and irrefutably solid; whole—and his own.

Sherlock raises his eyes abruptly, pale eyes locking on John's. He takes a step closer so that his thighs are nearly brushing John's knees, the warmth of them palpable through the twin barriers of their trousers.

There's a long, breathless minute while they just stare at each other. 

"You know, the other night," Sherlock says at last, his voice little more than a whisper, "after I went back to my room, I— I tried. I haven't done that for years." His mouth twists into an expression very close to pain. "There's a reason I don't do this sort of thing; it would be simpler if I truly felt nothing, but this… well. There are over seven thousand nerve endings in the human hand, and most of those in the palm and fingertips." John can see it, in his mind's eye; Sherlock, with his pale fingers wrapping around the hard length of his own erection, managing perhaps a single stolen moment of sensation before it whited out into nothingness. Left hard and wanting.

 _Let me_ , John thinks desperately, surprising himself with the force of it. _Please let me._

"I've never been able to— the enterprise was doomed to failure from the outset. But _god_ , John, if I could have."

John swallows hard around nothing, and touches his tongue to his lip.

"What I mean to say," Sherlock goes on, his voice low and rough with the effort of the scant bit of distance he's forcing himself to maintain between them, "is that I'm still not entirely sure that this is something I can do, but what I'm coming to realise is that it's something that I— that I very much want to." He blinks, twice, and turns his head so that John is staring at the stark outline of his jaw, the thin pale barrier of his skin stretched close over bone and tendon. "If you might be… amenable."

Amenable. Christ.

_Idiot._

John slides one hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck, his fingers pressing into the tense cords of muscle he can feel just below the skin. He means to stand, but Sherlock just splays his hands across each of John's thighs, the contact warm even though the fabric of John's trousers, and presses him back into place. Then he curves his spine to meet John where he is, his mouth seeking contact with an immediacy that is both hungry and somehow reassuring.

John spares a thought for the circumstances—they're in a laboratory, underground, in the middle of a military base—but when Sherlock's long fingers slide over his hips and up his back to settle against John's shoulderblades, he decides such considerations are of minimal importance.

John's eyes dart up to the camera in the ceiling, suddenly self-conscious, only to see that it's covered with… he squints, momentarily distracted.

"Shoe polish," Sherlock breathes against John's neck, and John can't help but laugh until Sherlock digs his fingers into John's jaw, drawing his head back and up to swallow the exhale as it leaves John's mouth.

The joining of their mouths is hard, harsh, and desperate, nothing like the gentle exploration of a few nights earlier. It's a rough tangle of lips and teeth, both of John's hands sliding up to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair, Sherlock's hands skimming across John's skin, clenching tight around the jut of John's hip, digging into the dense muscle of his back and shoulder. Sherlock's mouth opens and John doesn't hesitate for a moment, slipping his tongue inside, and Sherlock melts against him. John spreads his knees just wide enough and hooks his heels around the back of Sherlock's legs to pull him closer in, the twin ridges of Sherlock's hips jutting hard and insistent against the sensitive flesh on the insides of his thighs.

When Sherlock begins to draw back, John allows him to go only because he needs the air. Sherlock brings his mouth to John's neck and John tips his head back, throwing one hand behind him to catch his weight, his ears full of the harsh sound of Sherlock's breathing.

"Up," Sherlock commands, and practically heaves John off the bed. John gets his feet under him and turns, frowning at Sherlock in confusion, in time to see Sherlock tear the duvet from the surface of the bed.

John laughs, breathless. Sherlock grins back at him as he settles himself onto the newly-exposed sheets, balancing himself on one elbow, the cant of his chest a clear invitation.

John steps closer and Sherlock leans forward up immediately, gripping John by the front of his shirt. He gets to work on undoing John's buttons, but the motions of his fingers are clumsy and slow.

"Bloody, buggering, actual hell," Sherlock snarls after a minute. John swallows his smile and presses Sherlock's hands away to do the work himself. When the last button comes free and his shirt is hanging open John drops his hands to his sides, allowing Sherlock to be the one to strip it down over his shoulders, smoothing his hands along the planes of John's chest.

"I'm still not sure I can—" Sherlock begins, which is ridiculous, so John raises one hand to Sherlock's lips and slips two fingers between them into the soft wet heat of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock sucks in a surprised inhale and then just begins to suck, drawing John's fingers further into his mouth, past the barrier of his teeth.

Sherlock can't seem to settle his hands; they skim across the skin of John's chest, down his back. One comes up to curl around the back of John's neck, drawing John closer until their foreheads are touching. "Ah," Sherlock groans around John's fingers, still in his mouth, and all John can do in response is grin and begin working open the buttons on Sherlock's shirt with his left hand. His fingers are shaking, just a little. John lets his hand slip free of Sherlock's mouth to run them lightly down the long line of his throat as Sherlock leans in to scrape his teeth against the sensitive spot where John's neck joins his shoulder, making him shiver. 

By the time John has Sherlock's chest bared, the long pale lines of him, he's hard, the heat coiling at the base of his spine already urging him to move in, closer, _more_. But he wants to take his time with this—his mind full of _seven hours_ , the promise rich and dark in Sherlock's low voice—so he just presses lightly at Sherlock's shoulder, encouraging him to lie back. Sherlock lifts his hips to allow John to tug his trousers down; they slide over his hips to reveal the long musculature of his thighs, then off to puddle in an untidy pile on the ground.

 _Tell me if I lose you_ , he begs silently, and Sherlock understands well enough to nod. His lips fall open, just enough that John gets a glimpse of his tongue, soft and pink between the twin edges of his teeth. _Christ_. 

John presses his own tongue to the roof of his mouth, brushing the the tip back and forth across his palate, a barely-there sensation, tickling all the way down his throat. He has to be careful. He has to be so careful.

He brings his right hand up into Sherlock's hair, fisting the curls and tugging gently to encourage Sherlock's head back. Sherlock's breath turns ragged and he yields, tipping his chin upward to expose the long line of his throat. John twines his fingers in the curls and applies light pressure, just a touch, as he brings his mouth to Sherlock's throat. He doesn't touch his lips to the skin; instead, he opens his mouth to exhale against it and just touches the tip of his tongue to the line of Sherlock's tendon, standing stark beneath the pale barrier of his skin. The cry that shakes its way out of Sherlock's chest is low and dark, shattering into a ragged exhale.

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.

John brings his left palm flat against the bed, setting his knee just to the outside of Sherlock's thigh to take his weight. He curls forward, drawing the tip of his tongue down to the dip at the base of Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock's thigh tenses against the inside of his knee, one hand coming up to grip John's upper arm. John flicks his eyes up to Sherlock's face; after a moment, Sherlock looks back at him.

"No, no, it's— it's good, very—" Sherlock manages. John grins against the plane of Sherlock's chest and begins to tease his skin again, lower and lower until he's drawing his tongue along the inside of Sherlock's Iliac crest, careful to avoid the hard line of Sherlock's cock. He has to release his grip on Sherlock's hair, which is just as well, because John is going to want his hand for something else entirely soon. Sherlock is still gripping John's arm; his legs keep shifting against the table, his breath puffing in and out in shaky half-gasps.

John scratches the backs of his nails lightly up the inside of Sherlock's thigh, so lightly he can barely feel the contact between Sherlock's skin and his own. It's an exquisite sort of torture; he's achingly hard and wants nothing more than to grab on, to get as much of his skin pressed to as much of Sherlock's as possible, and that— he can't. He _can't_.

He chances a glance up at Sherlock, the slight upward bow of his body as it rides the line between tension and acceptance. He arches his spine upward with a harsh intake of breath and John takes that for the permission it is, bringing one hand to lightly encircle the base of Sherlock's erection, the other slowly drawing his foreskin back to expose the head of Sherlock's cock. He wets his lips and then sucks it carefully, _carefully_ , into his mouth, pressing the flat of his tongue against it as lightly as he can stand, breathing through his nose as he takes in the unfamiliar bitter-salt taste of the heat beneath Sherlock's skin.

"Oh," Sherlock breathes, from somewhere seemingly very far above him. "John. _Oh_."

Sherlock's hand falls away from John's arm and comes to rest shakily against John's left shoulder; John reaches up to take it, entwining Sherlock's fingers with his own. Sherlock's grip is like iron when John begins to suck gently at the head of his cock, careful to keep his mouth above the line of his foreskin. Sherlock's leg shakes and tenses; he moans, a deep, rumbling sound that seems torn from his throat.

"Fuck," Sherlock says, very distinctly, his voice curling around the word, low and dark and startingly obscene. The sound of it sends a breathless shiver up John's spine, and he has to pull away, just for a moment, to avoid simply swallowing Sherlock down. He wants to—Christ, how he wants to—but he knows it would be too much, and he couldn't possibly stand to lose Sherlock, not now.

Sherlock's exhale shudders from his chest. After a few shaky breaths of his own John draws the tip of Sherlock's erection back into his mouth, and Sherlock makes a sound that breaks into something uncertain, wrecked and desperate.

John's world narrows to a series of sensations: the tensing and releasing of Sherlock's muscles, the sharp pressure of Sherlock's fingers on the back of his hand, the small movements of Sherlock's cock inside his mouth, the taste of him on his tongue. John's own erection strains against his trousers. He looks up, once, to see that Sherlock is staring down at him with a frightening intensity that nearly ends John then and there, but he flattens his tongue along Sherlock's frenulum and presses and Sherlock's breath shivers into John's name.

"God, John, I need you to, _oh_ , god, I'm—" Sherlock gasps out, then he's arching upward in a taut bow and John is swallowing and swallowing, his ears full of the sound of Sherlock's voice breaking around a moan. Sherlock still has one hand clenched tight on John's; the other reaches over his head to grasp at the edge of the mattress, his muscles straining upward, as he shakes and shakes and shakes.

John holds Sherlock in his mouth until he softens, just because he can, then rests his cheek against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock's limbs feel loose and heavy; John half expects him to fall asleep, afterward, but it can't be more than a minute or two later when he feels two strong hands tugging him upward. And— and yes, yes, okay.

John moves up to slot their bodies beside one another on the narrow bed, biting his lip hard to keep himself from pressing his own arousal against Sherlock's hip. Sherlock's fingers begin to work the zip on John's trousers, clumsy, and even that small sensation is maddening. They dip in to brush against the sensitive skin at the crease of John's thigh, sending a hot shiver of sensation burning beneath John's skin; the forward press of his cock against Sherlock's hip is entirely involuntary; not nearly enough. 

Sherlock shoves John back just far enough to tug his zip down and pull his trousers roughly over his hips. Then Sherlock presses the heel of his hand against the hard length of John's erection. Even through the cotton of his briefs, the sudden warmth of Sherlock's palm is enough to make John's breath catch in his throat. Sherlock's fingers curl to brush against John's perineum, more exploratory than hesitant, and John's exhale shakes from his chest, because _Christ, yes, fuck_. Then Sherlock's long fingers twist, slide beneath the cotton, brushing against John's cock where it's blood-hot and full, wrapping around— 

Oh, _fuck_.

John gasps and struggles against the force of Sherlock's grip, far too tight to be pleasurable. His fingers are like steel bands, relentless and crushing, making John's breath catch in his throat; it takes him a moment to remember he can move. He pushes Sherlock's hand away with more force than he intends.

"Problem?" Sherlock says, too quickly.

Right, Sherlock doesn't do this, not even alone, he— Christ, is this the first time he's done this? John's mind calls up old statistics from the early days of medical school, aceptive reproduction and—this might even be the first time Sherlock has had an orgasm while conscious. _Fuck_ , that's— that shouldn't be hot. It shouldn't. 

John takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and manages to arrange his mouth into a small smile. His fingers are shaking, just a little, as he guides Sherlock's hand back down against him, fighting the urge to rut into the heat of Sherlock's skin. _Like this,_ he thinks, and Sherlock seems to understand enough to nod, his eyes mere inches from John's, gleaming. John wraps his hand over Sherlock's, their fingertips touching. It's awkward and a bit of a wrench on his wrist, but when Sherlock puffs out a breath and begins to move his hand, it's— god, Sherlock's hand on him, letting John show him exactly what to do, and _fuck_. He tips his head forward, burying his forehead in Sherlock's shoulder, concentrating on the waves of sensation rolling down his spine.

Sherlock's hand goes abruptly still. "John," he says, his voice sharp with urgency. "Don't, please, you— don't close your eyes." John tips his head back, puzzled, to find Sherlock staring at him, eyes dark and shadowed with something John can't quite identify. " _Please_ , John, I— I need to see."

And that's— okay. That's okay; that's better than okay, in fact, because Sherlock spurs their joined hands to begin moving once again. The combination of watching Sherlock watch him fall apart, the intensity of Sherlock's gaze, the sensations of John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's hand both moving together on John's cock— _fuck_ — is like nothing John has ever imagined. He feels pinned, flayed, a thin layer of nerve endings trapped between plates of glass. He keeps his eyes open and swallows around nothing, all of his awareness narrowing down to the feeling of Sherlock's hand on him, the two bright points of Sherlock's pale eyes, and it's— it's too much, he—

"Please." Sherlock doesn't even try to disguise the fact that he's begging, frantic and desperate. "Please, stay with me. _Please_." 

John forces his eyes open again and nods. There's not enough air in his chest; Sherlock is breathing heavily, open-mouthed, and John leans just a little closer and then the dark warmth coiling at the base of his spine sparks outward and he shudders his way to completion, spilling hot and sudden over their joined hands.

  


* * *

  


Later—possibly much later—John opens his eyes to discover that he's still lying with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. His cheek is uncomfortably warm where it's pressed against Sherlock's skin; Sherlock's chest is rising and falling evenly with his breath. John blinks and rubs a hand over his eyes, blearily trying to rouse himself.

"Not long," Sherlock murmurs, anticipating John's question. John feels Sherlock's voice as a rumble in his own chest that shakes him down to the base of his spine. "Hours yet until the seven a.m. wake-up. Go back to sleep." His fingers curl protectively against the back of John's hip.

It's uncomfortable, on Godfrey's cramped single bed, shaping himself to accommodate Sherlock's body, their limbs a jumble of angles that doesn't quite add up to anything whole.

Sherlock's hand is warm and solid against his back.

John sleeps anyway.

  


* * *

  


By 06:55 the next morning they are both dressed in the previous night's clothes. Sherlock is sitting in the desk chair; John is standing beside the bed, which he has made up to military precision.

At 07:00 exactly, the electronic lock disengages and a man John has never seen before pushes his way inside. He crosses the small room in two long strides to tower over Sherlock, who just tips his chin up to regard him coolly from his still-seated position.

Sherlock greets him with forced cheer. "Major Barrymore. Meet Doctor Watson, my—"

"Get out," Barrymore growls, throwing one arm out in a sweeping arc to indicate the door. "Your clearance was— you— this is _highly unethical_."

Sherlock stands with one smooth motion, picking up his coat and draping it over his arm. "I suspect anyone raising a question of ethics would find more than a few things of interest in this facility, Major," he says. 

Then he's gone, sweeping out into the hallway. He quirks his head to stare directly into the hall security camera, waving at it with a quick flick of his fingers. "Tell my brother I send my regards." John has to duck his head to hide his grin as he hurries to follow.

  


* * *

  


The sun is just climbing over the tops of the trees, partially obscured by the dark clouds gathering on the horizon, when Sherlock pulls the Land Rover to a stop in front of Henry's house. "We'll collect our things," Sherlock says, "and check in on Godfrey. Then I think it's time we head back to Baker Street."

Yes; back to Baker Street sounds perfect. He'd very much like to get home, with Sherlock, to his— oh, Christ. John's face glows with a sudden warmth that he hopes isn't visible in the low morning light. To his own bed, or to Sherlock's? What is Mrs Hudson going to think?

"I don't think there's much about this that will catch her by surprise," Sherlock says in a voice that's curled through with amusement. "And really, John, you need to understand that—"

The front door of the house comes open and Henry emerges, a smile stretched across his face. "I wondered if you'd be back," he calls. "Look!" He points back toward the open front door; as if on cue, Maggie appears, wagging her tail as she bounds down the steps. "She's back!" Henry says, completely unnecessarily, dropping to one knee to scratch her behind the ear. "I don't know if you found her or— or if she found her own way, but—"

Sherlock draws himself upward, all the easy comfort of a moment ago abruptly disappearing from his bearing, and fixes the dog with a stare. John hears the ragged intake of breath before he speaks."Provided by the NHS, no doubt."

Henry's face creases into a frown. "Yes, she— she's a service dog, so of course—"

Sherlock makes a small, derisive sound. "Put in for a new one," he says. "Her hearing is going."

"What?"

John slants a quick look at Sherlock's face. His expression has drawn tight; his eyes gleaming, his skin nearly translucent in the pale morning light.

"You were right about there being a sound." Sherlock's mouth twists. "It's intended as a deterrent; she moves toward it. Ergo, she's losing her hearing. She'll be useless to you before long."

"I don't—" Henry begins, then breaks off with a shake of his head, his hand tightening in the fur at the back of Maggie's neck.

Sherlock turns his head, darting a quick glance in John's direction. "Keep her as a pet, if you must."

Henry stands, eyes darting from Sherlock to John and back again. "I don't understand," he says, after a moment. Sherlock waves a hand in the direction of the still-open front door. "Right, yes, of course," Henry says quickly. "Come in."

Sherlock sweeps past him and into the house, John following close on his heels. Henry's mouth falls open as they pass.

"Bring her inside," Sherlock calls over his shoulder, "unless you want to lose her again."

Damn it all, Sherlock. John grits his teeth and pauses in the doorway to thumb out a message, then turns his screen so Henry can see.

Go get your dog before she runs off again.

Sherlock is waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, the lines of tension visible in his neck and shoulders. He doesn't meet John's gaze; John lifts one hand to touch him lightly on the arm. "I didn't hear it either," Sherlock mutters, his voice low and rough edged with strain. "You did, though." He fixes John with a stare, pale eyes flashing. "You heard it out in the Hollow, and then again yesterday evening, in the lab." The last is nearly a question, and John just nods. The muscles in Sherlock's temple jump as he flexes his jaw. "I couldn't."

John reaches his hand into his pocket to pull out his TID, wanting to say… to say _something_ to ease the look from Sherlock's face, but his fingers have barely even brushed its casing before Henry comes in.

"Your cousin," Sherlock snaps, turning to him. "Is he still upstairs?"

"Yes, yes, he's— he's been up there all night," Henry stammers. "Came down for supper last night, but I haven't seen him since then."

Sherlock turns to take the steps two at a time, the tail of his coat flaring out behind him. John and Henry hurry to follow. They reach the hallway just in time to see Sherlock pushing open the door to Godfrey's room.

"He's gone," Sherlock snarls. His eyes dart around the room, then he snatches up a piece of paper lying on top of the bureau. His mouth contorts into an expression of pure rage. "She's taken him," he says, his voice suffused with dark fury, and shoves the note into John's hand.

The paper itself is heavy, obviously expensive, the letters inked in neat, looping handwriting. The note is signed with a single letter, in red ink, finished with a looping flourish. 

  


[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/58298637@N06/7899864520/)

  


"We were gone too long," Sherlock says, one hand coming up to tug at his curls as he begins to pace. "Distracted, I was— _stupid_." He drops his hand abruptly against the top of the bureau. It lands with an impact that makes John jump.

John has to force himself to breathe through the tightness in his chest. Godfrey's been taken, sometime in the last few hours, while he and Sherlock were— oh, Christ.

Sherlock turns on Henry, one arm darting out to grasp him hard by the shoulder. "You saw nothing? Nothing unusual?"

Henry shakes his head. "No, I— I suppose I was distracted, with Maggie, I—"

Sherlock drops his hand from Henry's shoulder and turns away with a low growl of irritation.

"Who is it? Who— who has him?" 

Sherlock doesn't dignify that with a response, still pacing and muttering to himself.

John hands the note to Henry, then retrieves his TID and thumbs out a message that he hopes will be reassuring.

She's clever, but Sherlock knows her. Don't worry; he'll find her. It's what he does. Go downstairs and call the police.

Henry looks from the screen to John's face, utterly baffled. "He _knows who_?" John just shakes his head; he can't possibly begin to explain the history between Sherlock and Irene Adler. Not now. He just taps the screen again. _Police_.

"Right," Henry says vaguely. "Right, I'll just— right."

The second he's out of the room, John reaches out a hand to grasp Sherlock's wrist, letting his questions show on his face.

"She can't possibly have arranged it," Sherlock says, too quickly, the words clipped and urgent. "There's no way for her to have arranged the… the fog, and Henry's bloody _dog_. She used me to get to Godfrey, but…"

He trails off, squeezing his eyes shut in irritation. John brings one hand up to brush a fingertip lightly down the line of Sherlock's temple, the contact so light as to be nearly impalpable. Nearly.

After a moment, Sherlock's eyes open again, his pale gaze fixing on John's. "The sound is a deterrent," he says, slowly. "To drive everyone off the moor while they vent the— the fog. The aspirated treatment that gave your friend back his voice." John nods. "The dog must have been drawn to it. I couldn't hear it, John." He shakes his head and John's grip on his wrist tightens in a reflexive gesture of comfort. "Godfrey must have— have got loose from Baskerville somehow. He doesn't seem to remember being there, but we could confirm that if he were _here_."

At that, John shakes his head in warning. If Godfrey has been abducted, it's hardly the time to be concerned about the fact that he's not there to help Sherlock resolve his puzzle.

Sherlock wrenches his wrist from John's grasp and turns, slamming his hand again into the top of the bureau. "I've _lost him_."

To: Sherlock Holmes 08:08  
You'll find him.

"Oh yes," Sherlock says, voice carefully even and dark with promise. "Have no doubt about that."

  


* * *

  


Later—after the police have been summoned and statements given, after John has had far too much time to stare into his rapidly-cooling tea and listen to the sounds of rain beginning on the other sides of the windows and Sherlock railing at the detectives on the first floor—they find themselves once again in the Land Rover, beginning the long drive back to London.

The rain shows no sign of letting up, and Sherlock scowls out through the windscreen as he shifts gears to merge onto the M4. He hasn't spoken since they left Henry's house. The silence is beginning to wear on John; he extends his right hand to settle it carefully against the top of Sherlock's thigh, just above the knee.

Sherlock's eyes flick down to it, then dart to John's face. "It's fine," he says, sounding almost— is that surprise? "It's… it's better than fine." He drops his left hand from the gear shift to squeeze John's fingers, briefly. 

Fine. They can work with fine.

John turns his head to give Sherlock a tight smile. The silence shifts to become something comfortable, and they ride on for a few minutes more as the patter of rain against the roof builds into a steady drumming. Sherlock is obliged to take his hand away again to turn on the wipers as the downpour begins in earnest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who's stuck with this to the end, both as readers and the many of you who have helped me with the writing of this.
> 
> There are more stories coming in this universe; at least one more long, plotty thing that will resolve a few of the questions still left open here, as well as a few PWPs (because... well, because I just can't resist). 
> 
> Just as a reminder, my [ask box](thisprettywren.tumblr.com/ask) is always open, if there are still questions you have or you have suggestions for something you'd like to see explored.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Quintessential by thisprettywren](https://archiveofourown.org/works/698311) by [hechicera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hechicera/pseuds/hechicera)




End file.
